


Study of Flight

by esama



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-19 10:45:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 123,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13702866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama
Summary: Minerva and Jupiter send Desmond back in time to change history.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Proofread credit to nimadge

How much changes in so little time.

Minerva walks over the body on the floor, sighing. All that work, all those preparations, those warnings. So long she'd spend in the numbers, in the calculation, looking, foreseeing, until her eyes landed on Desmond and in him found her solution. At the right time, with the right coding, he was in place to change things, to save the world and she thought, she _thought_ …

Now he lies dead at her feet, his arm scorched through by the power he, for a moment wielded. He would have died with or without Juno to use the Eye they built – there was never a question of his survival and Minerva had felt guilty for that. But it was a sacrifice that had to be made – one she knew he would be willing to make – to save many.

But not this.

Juno is gone now, fled from the Grand Temple the moment its barriers broke – she is beyond Minerva's sight now and so is the future. Outside the chambers of the Grand Temple, future is now in flux and she cannot predict it anymore – Juno will change it too much. Humans were easy to calculate, their actions simple and predictable, but Juno… Juno is a different beast, as humans would say.

Minerva sighs. She's not really there – she remains as calculation of her own making, her body and mind long since given to the Earth – but she can still feel. Her mistake had been one of ignorance but it was still hers. She hadn't predicted Juno, hadn't seen how far spite and malice would carry her. Time and the mechanisms of the Grand Temple should have ground her code to dust long ago, but it had not. And now… now Minerva no longer can affect anything.

Earth had not burned. Millions, billions of lives survived. Perhaps it was a just result, perhaps Desmond was right in choosing it. Minerva cannot feel so sanguine however – she knows Juno too well, knows her desires, her goals, the power she graves. And now she has millions of minds, ready for subjugation. The world would be remade in her image. It's only matter of time.

And there is nothing Minerva can do about it. There will be no more warnings, no more recordings. Her chosen prophet, like her chosen one, are both gone now, and there is none left to listen to her. Perhaps she could reach out to those Desmond knew but…

They aren't enough to make that kind of difference. She chose Desmond for a reason. She chose Ezio Auditore da Firenze for a reason.

"So this is where we come to," a voice speaks and Minerva looks to see Jupiter, materialising in golden light to join her.

"Juno was here," Minerva says, her voice weary. "She's been released now. Desmond chose to save the world at the cost of releasing her."

"The Cipher is now complete, yes," Jupiter agrees, walking around the body by the pedestal. Desmond looks… so strange just lying there, still smoking from the burnt of the Eye. There is no blood, however – Minerva is grateful for that.

"I didn't prepare him properly," Minerva mutters and turns away, disgusted with herself, with Juno – even in lesser part Jupiter, even though he'd never quite believed in this. "There was time, I could have told him about Juno. He could have understood."

"You told him what you though he needed to know and nothing more," Jupiter says and slowly crouches down by Desmond. "To keep his goals clear and his mind unhindered, you gave your warnings alone, keeping our stories brief and simple. There was no point in painting them with our bias."

"Juno did," Minerva says and tilts her head up, to look at the lofty ceiling of the grand temple. "I can see her now – she got into Desmond's head in Roma and she's been there ever since, guiding him towards her."

Jupiter doesn't answer and Minerva glances up to see him running his translucent fingers over Desmond's face, slow. Minerva frowns and then looks around them. Whatever Jupiter is doing, he is doing with considerable amount of power. Which means...

"There is still power left," Minerva says with surprise, looking around the temple. "Using the Eye should have drained it all."

"Juno needed to preserve some for her own departure – her code is massive now, sending it requires a powerful signal," Jupiter agrees, his eyes closed. "He is not gone yet, Minerva."

"What?" Minerva asks with surprise and then she's down on her knee by Desmond, her hand over his forehead. His body is still, his heart no longer beats – but Desmond's mind is resilient. Energy persists there, in the folds of his brain, sparking between neurons.

"We haven't the means of reviving him," Minerva says, looking to Jupiter. "There are no devices of healing here. A minute, and he will be gone."

In answer, Jupiter shifts the two of them to a faster time frame – for every second that passes in reality, a thousand will pass for them. "We must consider this carefully," Jupiter says and stands up. "The Cipher is the key and for us to stop Juno, he must survive."

Minerva closes her eyes and does a quick but thorough scan through the temple's systems. Over the tens of thousands of years since their departure from mortal flesh, it had been converted towards a single purpose – to benefit the Eye and make its functions possible. Everything else had been lost in the purpose, their raw materials repurposed for the Eye. Nothing _useful_ remains here.

And in the few moments Desmond's failing brain signals have, there is no time to bring anything here.

"We can lift his mind from his body and preserve it," Jupiter says thoughtfully, stroking a hand over his beard and walking a few steps away from the body.

"He will be useless then," Minerva says. "The mind alone isn't enough; we need the body." It was the body that housed the memories, the genome – the lineage that made Desmond. It was vital.

Jupiter chuckles.

Minerva looks up, frowning. It's not his indulgent chuckle – it's his smug one. "What have you done?" she asks suspiciously.

Jupiter smiles a little. "While you concentrated onto the Cipher and the calculations leading up to him, and Juno onto the Eye and her manipulations… I too had a project," he admits and folds his hands into his sleeves. "One seventy-five thousand years in the making. It was in the beginning just to prove that it could not be done, then it was something to keep my mind occupied… and finally, I had to finish it."

Minerva stares at him, shocked. "You… Then you can –"

"No," Jupiter says with a shake of his head. "The energy requirement would be far too high, it cannot be done. Our past will remain as it is, but…" he looks down to Desmond. "His is well within the reach."

Minerva looks down at Desmond. "You can undo this," she whispers.

"I can give him a chance," Jupiter says and holds out a hand over Desmond. There is a flicker of energy as he begins recording the frozen energy patterns of Desmond's still living mind from his dead body. "I can give him time. The rest, I'm afraid, is beyond my ability to change."

Minerve paces beside Desmond's still form, watching Jupiter record his mind, preserve it. "It will not be enough," she says with a shake of her head. "There is no time for another solution – there is only the Eye. Desmond will still want to save the world and there is only this one way to do it. He will come back here and he will die, again. It is the only means he has – there is not enough time for anything else."

Jupiter's fingers flex. "Then perhaps we shall make more time," he says, holds his hand up – on his palm floats a beautiful render of Desmond's brain, it's synapses firing in holographic simile of the physical form.

Minerva holds out her hand. She knows Desmond's body down to its last molecule – rebuilding it in the virtual form is hardly a task at all, as she replicates every bone and muscle until a golden, glowing version of him stands over his own physical form. Jupiter hums, and then he puts the record of Desmond's mind into the recreation of his body and as they watch, the human comes to with a jolt.

"What –?" Desmond asks, and then he stops, stares at them. "Minerva? _Jupiter_?"

"Hello Desmond," Minerva says and tries for a smile she doesn't quite feel like. "Your sacrifice is complete – the world has withstood the rage of the sun. You have saved your planet."

Desmond's eyes are wide as he stares at her – and then he sees the body. "Oh," he says and his shoulders slump. " _Oh_."

"We have preserved your mind," Jupiter says, and moves around the said body. "But your body is beyond our means to repair it."

Desmond says nothing for a moment, looking at his own body before crouching down beside it. "I look peaceful," he says. "I guess that's something."

Desmond had always ever been only means to an end for Minerva, but in that moment she feels a honest, true twinge of fondness for him. For all the pain and trials and tribulations thrown his way… nothing truly shocks Desmond. Had she allowed herself to feel such things before, she thinks it would have been her favourite thing of her chosen one.

"Why did you preserve me?" Desmond asks then, looking up but staying crouched on the floor. "My job's done now, isn't it? And I'm not much use to anyone without a body. Without my genes."

"We do not agree with this end result," Jupiter admits and looks down at him. "Juno should not have been released."

Desmond blinks. "Nothing much I can do about that now," he says. "Sorry. Or are you here to punish me for it? Bit petty of you, to punish a dead man."

Minerva chuckles and shakes away the threads of feelings. "No, not that. That would not change anything," she says and then looks up to Jupiter. "It seems Juno was not the only one with a secret project."

"I wouldn't call it a secret, I made little efforts to hide it. Nobody simply looked for it," Jupiter answers calmly and looks away, waving his hand. A representation of the world appears and on that recording number of makers flash. "It was hidden by the earth itself. Here," he points and Desmond rises slowly to look. "Here is where I build my vault, and where it was buried."

Minerva looks and frowns while Desmond shakes his head. "That's Italy somewhere, but…"

"It is Pompeii," Minerva clarifies.

"… _oh._ "

"Yes," Jupiter agrees. "One of our minor storage vaults was there, for storing knowledge that, in the wake of the Cataclysm, no longer mattered. I made it my home for a time, and I converted it to my purposes. There I worked for tens of thousands of years, while Juno laid in imprisonment and Minerva slept."

Desmond casts her a look and she sighs. "There was little point in action," she explains. "It took so long for humanity to restore itself to the point where they could even understand me."

" _Nice_ ," Desmond says, snorting, and looks to Jupiter. "So what's in Pompeii, what were you working on?"

"Means to travel back in time," Jupiter says.

Desmond's eyebrows arch. "…Bullshit."

"It is difficult, granted, nearly impossible… but I had quite the time to work on it," Jupiter says and turns to him. "The energy requirement is quite lofty, the farther back you wish to go the more it requires. However," he motions around them. "Before it was spent, there was plenty of energy here."

Desmond frowns while Minerva considers it.

"Okay, so… what are you actually saying?" Desmond asks with suspicion and confusion.

"With the energy remaining in the Grand Temple and what I have stored in mine at Pompeii, I have the means of sending your mind back," Jupiter says. "And with the power sources of the Grand Temple, we can send your body back as well."

"My body is dead," Desmond points out slowly.

"Not in the past," Jupiter says simply.

Desmond shakes his head. "And then what?" he asks, confused. "What am I supposed to then?"

"You change history and prevent the future," Jupiter says simply. "There are means to save the world that do not require the Grand Temple's design, but they take time. This is time I can give you. Go into the past, and lay the foundations and sow the seeds for knowledge, so that they may begin earlier. And perhaps, Juno might yet remain bound and not a danger to this world."

Minerva thinks on it, calculating the possibilities. "The Prophet's time," she says and looks to Desmond and then to Jupiter. "It will require at least the Prophet's time, for there to be enough time for technology to change. Will there be enough energy?"

"You – want me to go back to _Ezio's_ time?" Desmond asks with disbelief.

"An elegant solution," Jupiter agrees. "A time of innovation and invention and exploration. New technologies could very well slip into this time without too much confusion. There is just enough energy for it. Yes, it can be done."

"I don't know _shit_ about technology!" Desmond objects, looking between them in alarm. "I'm not a scientist, I'm not a inventor! I'm just a damn bartender – what the hell do you expect me to do, reinvent the damn wheel?"

"Desmond," Minerva says gently. "Look at yourself. You are no longer of flesh and blood, no longer bound to your physical form and its limitations. You are, in essence, a program. We can give you knowledge now very easily."

"What, you're going to _install_ it into my mind?" Desmond asks, looking deeply disturbed. "I'm not so sure about that…"

"It will not require much," Minerva says and considers. How much would it take, really, to spark a technological revolution few centuries early? Humanity is wonderful in the sense that they turn everything into a competition – their race for the Moon was proof of that. All it would take one for others to compete with, and technology would develop from there. What would be enough to change history in the Prophet's time, and spark that race that would change the future?

A single thing.

"I will give you the knowledge of flight," Minerva decides. "And you will be start the humanity's quest for the skies hundreds of years ahead of it's time. This will ensure that by the time the Sun begins its flaring, humanity will be ready."

Desmond opens his mouth and makes a garbled noise of objection. "That's – you're kidding me. That will change everything!" he says. "That will change – the _whole human history._ "

"Only the last five hundred years of it," Minerva says dismissively – it's a mere blink of an eye in their existence.

"Do you have any idea what kind of _consequences_ it might have?" Desmond asks weakly.

Minerva calculates it. "Yes," she agrees. "I do. It means that by this time humanity will know space, and when the sun flares and the skies would burn, they can build a shield to shelter themselves. A shield in space, to blot out the sun and stop its rage from ever reaching the world. All without ever needing our aid, or the Grand Temple, to save them."

A primitive solution, she thinks, and elegant in its simplicity. An actual physical shield to hide the world behind. It would have never occurred to the Isu.

Desmond blinks at her, his mouth opening, closing and then staying shut. For a long moment he just stares at her in stunned astonishment. Then he turns to look at Jupiter instead. "What do I need to do?"

Jupiter looks between him and Minerva. "You need to gather the energy sources and bring them to my temple in Pompeii," he says then. "I have just enough power to send your mind back to your living body, but not far – a month, perhaps two, and that will drain my energy."

"A month will be enough, no, I don't even need that much," Desmond says and thinks about it. "December twelfth, or thirteenth, can you take me back to the thirteenth of December?"

Minerva looks at him and then she knows what he's thinking. By that time they have two of the Grand Temple's power sources – and the last one would be in Roma. He would take the two other power sources – and the Apple – with him to Roma and from there… he would go to Pompeii.

Oh, his mind – it works so marvellously, if given the chance and the need.

"I dare say I can," Jupiter says with satisfaction – he must see the result too, now that Minerva has made the calculation and Desmond has made his decision. Desmond's decisions echo in time, after all – he is not their chosen one for nothing.

"Well, let's go then," Desmond says and looks down at his own body, lying dead and still at their feet. "No time like the present, is there?"

"No, none at all," Jupiter says and closes his eyes. "I will transport our code to my temple now. It will feel strange for you, Cipher, but do not be alarmed. The confusion will pass."

"Great," Desmond says – and then Jupiter moves them.

Minerva settles into the new shell of Jupiter's temple with ease – but Desmond falls into his knees in simile of a physical reaction, retching in echo of nausea that is more spiritual than physical. Jupiter ignores him and waves his hand, and around them the temple lights up with golden glow.

"The nausea you feel is only mental," Minerva says to Desmond. "Echo of your code shifting shells. Settle your mind – you are whole again."

"Easy for you to say – I'm not used to being – _this_ ," Desmond gasps and shudders and settles. He looks up, bleary. "I know this place," he says then, surprised and struggles to his feet. "This is where I met you."

Minerva looks around them, curious. It's vacant, the temple. How like Jupiter to build his temple empty, with only floor and walls and ceiling, fractured with golden glow of the machinery embedded in them. No pedestals, no podiums, no steps or stages, nothing. This is not a place meant for human interaction – only Jupiter can command it.

"I once used the Prophet to draw you to this place, yes," Jupiter agreed. "The Apple in your forefather's vault and the Prophet were enough of a conduit to allow it."

"We're just parts in the machine for you, aren't we?" Desmond mutters.

"All things are calculable," Minerva says, still looking around in fascination. "Everything can be translated to numbers. With enough precision, with enough intelligence, all things can be predicted – and everything reduced to energy."

"That's really comforting," Desmond sighs and then peers around. "You said you weren't used to the calculations," he says then, glancing at Jupiter. "That the whole time thing wasn't your thing. Look at you now."

"I know little of predicting the future," Jupiter says dismissively. "It is a tasking process and not within my domain. The past doesn't require such calculations for it has already happened and thus already exists. Because of my work here, I could draw you to this place through the Prophet, but it was not what this temple is for."

"Right," Desmond says and shoves his hands nervously into the pockets of his clothes. "So, now what?"

"Now," Minerva says and steps forward. "I will give you knowledge of aviation, so that you may use it to change history."

"This should be fun," Desmond says with a swallow, but he stays still and stands firm as Minerva lays a hand on his forehead. "So what should I –" he freezes and his eyes glaze over.

Taking the steps of man's flight from history, plucking out the moments and the designs from where they'd originated, the theories and experiments, Minerva packages them together and then slides them into Desmond's coding, inserting them into his mind. For a human it's quite bit of knowledge, perhaps a bit too much – were Desmond in a body, it would be enough to break his mind. But he is not – he is code now, and code is malleable.

"There," she whispers once the transfer of information is complete, and Desmond has all he needs.

The human blinks, his eyes flickering with light and then he frowns. "That's…" he starts to say and then doesn't seem to have words to continue. He shudders and shakes his head, looking deeply disturbed, but he says nothing.

"Quite," Minerva agrees with his silent distress and then turns to Jupiter. "He knows all he needs to now. The rest is up to you."

Jupiter nods gravely and looks at Desmond. "I will send you back now. You will awaken in your body, eight days in the past. It will likely be confusing, so I will seek your body as it sleeps and hopefully you can rewrite your code without hindrance," he says and then looks up to Minerva. "With him I will send enough of my own code so that once he arrives here I will know why. But I cannot send you, sister – your code is too much."

"That is as it should," Minerva says and sighs. "We have moved beyond my domain now and I have done all I can."

"As you say," Jupiter agrees and looks down on Desmond. "Are you ready, Cipher?"

Desmond draws a shuddering simulated breath and lifts his chin. "As ready as I'll ever be," he says. "I – should thank you."

"You should not," Minerva says with a shake of her head. "None of this would be necessary had we known of Juno. The cause and fault for this is ours. We are merely repairing a mistake now."

"With _time travel,_ " Desmond mutters and shakes his head. "I'd be dead now – I _am_ dead. This is going to save my life. It's a bit personal, so just – let me be grateful, okay?"

Minerva smiles, guilty, thinking of her designs. He was always supposed to die. "Very well," she says quietly. "The rest is up to you now, Desmond. The future will be remade in your image."

"No pressure or anything," Desmond sighs and then turns to Jupiter. "I'm ready."

Jupiter nods and holds out his hand.

The temple lights, a hum of power coursing through the air, blinding and hot. It's only for a moment – and then the light fades and Desmond is gone, not a flicker of his code left.

"This timeline will be gone in a moment," Jupiter says gravely. "That is the ultimate cost of this method. We will be gone soon."

"It is a long time coming," Minerva says and closes her eyes. Tens of thousands of years of waiting and calculating and _fearing_ and it ends here and now, at their own hand. It seems suitable – and if she takes a small sum of pleasure in knowing that somewhere they also destroy Juno by this method, if only at the cost of the entire universe and a whole space time continuum, then… so be it. It's a small victory but it is theirs.

She exhales and then…


	2. Chapter 2

"I don't know what you hope to accomplish," Bill says through gritted teeth, clenching and unclenching his hands in their binds. "He won't come. He knows better than that."

And honestly, why would Desmond come for him of all people? There's no love lost between them now – if anything, Desmond might be happier with him gone and no longer breathing in his neck, and Bill isn't entirely sure he can blame the boy. He's had some time to think on it, here, in the gentle mercies of Abstergo – the things he'd done wrong and it's a litany that seems to grow longer with each day.

He doesn't know how to talk to Desmond now, doesn't know how to _think of him_ either. Desmond was, is, his son and should have been one of the best Assassins out there – that was the future Bill had envisioned for his only son when Desmond had still been under his watchful eye where he was _safe_ … Back then they hadn't laid such importance on genes, Animus wasn't quite the thing it had become now, but even so, Desmond had the lineage for great things. He should have been great.

But Desmond is something else now, and every time their eyes meet Bill can't see the Assassin his boy should've been. He sees a man, a stranger, who doesn't know him, who doesn't trust him – for whom it's a little painful to even look at him.

Desmond wouldn't come for him. Bill tries to tell himself that's a relief – Desmond is many things, all of them foolish, but he's not sentimental enough to mount a hopeless rescue for a man who is essentially a stranger and a disliked one at that.

Desmond wouldn't come, and he definitely wouldn't be bringing the Apple.

"We shall see, shan't we?" Vidic says as he walks around him, perusing a tablet computer as he does – on it, security footage around the Tower is being displayed. "Quite honestly, though, I must admit I expected better of you, Mr. Miles the _senior_ ," he says, glancing over to him. "Walking straight into an ambush like that, one would think you were _trying_ to be caught."

Bill casts the asshole a sideways look but doesn't answer.

"Never mind that one does expect the Mentor of the Brotherhood to have a bit more skills," Vidic says. "Quite honestly, your son is less than five months into his training, isn't it – and already he is, well… miles ahead of you in terms of skills."

As Vidic turns, Bill can see the footage on the tablet – it's from their previous forays after the power sources. Somehow Abstergo had gotten footage of Desmond climbing the scaffolding and parachuting. "Leap of Faith, isn't it?" Vidic says with a smarmy little smile. "I understand you don't really do it these days."

Buildings are little higher than they were in the past, Bill doesn't say, even as he eyes the loop of Desmond's graceful dive off the crane.

"We have been analysing his combat footage as well – it's quite something," Vidic says. "All this after mere months into using the Animus. We have data from Ms. Stillman of course; she insisted on conducting her Bleeding Effect studies on Mr. Miles… but I have to hand it to her, posthumously as it might be. She was indeed onto something with it."

Bill looks away and Vidic tuts gently. "Quite the fighter our young Mr. Miles has become. Only imagine what might have been… if you had not chased him away."

There's a crackle of a radio and Vidic eases an earpiece in. "Ah," he says, with deep satisfaction, to whatever he's hearing. "Thank you, that is very good news."

Damn it.

Vidic taps the tablet and stares at it for a while. He's smiling when he turns it around to show to Bill. "It seems like I know your son better than you do, Mr. Miles," he says with smug satisfaction and Bill grits his teeth.

On the live footage Desmond is walking in through Abstergo's front doors, the idiot.

"And he has the Apple with him too, judging by the scans," Vidic says and then turns the tablet around to peer at it. "Hm, still hasn't learned his lessons, it seems," he says and hits his headset. "I'd rather this didn't turn ugly, Mr. Miles," he says into the headset and Bill can imagine his voice, echoing on the floor Desmond is on. He waits a moment and then rolls his eyes. "Subdue the subject, please."

What happens then, Bill doesn't see, but judging by Vidic's expression there is no subduing the subject. The old man scowls and then paces a few steps, staring at the tablet. And then Vidic smiles again, almost amused. "Well it seems like you have learned nothing since you left us," he says into the headset. "Walking into an elevator in middle of hostile environment, _really?_ "

The asshole casts a look at Bill, his eyebrows arched and Bill smothers a sigh. Really indeed.

Vidic chuckles at what he hears on the comms. "You'll see him soon enough," he promises to whatever Desmond had said – must've been about Bill, then. "Now be a good boy and wait for the security to fetch you."

Vidic hits the headset again to turn it off and turns to Bill. "Honestly," he says. "Combat ability isn't everything, it seems. Haven't had the time to learn proper strategy, then."

Bill doesn't give him the satisfaction of answering. He looks away instead and sets his face – and his heart – for the worse. Desmond was a failure in many ways, mostly a failure of Bill's own ambitions for which Desmond had no interest for in any way, but… he was still Bill's son. His foolish son of the lineage of giants.

If Desmond is captured now… Bill would never see him again. Desmond would vanish into the vaults of Abstergo where they would squeeze all the use out of his genes until nothing remained – until Desmond would be reduced to the likes of Daniel Cross or worse, Clay Kaczmarek.

Bill has little notion on what to expect for himself. They hadn't even _tried_ to get information out of him yet – they have the Mentor of the Assassin Brotherhood and all Abstergo cares about is Desmond and the Apple. Once they have those things, though…

And then Vidic's people lose Desmond.

"Find him," Vidic snarls into the headset and then turns. "Where is Cross? Well get him in place then, we need him to – _thank you._ "

Vidic paces back and forth for a while, minute stretching into eternity while Bill counts the man's footsteps, the sharp turns he makes. He can almost count the trail of bodies Desmond must be leaving behind by the twitch of the old man's face.

"Oh for God's sake," Vidic mutters and hits his headset. "Enough is enough Mr. Miles. I invited you here in the spirit of cooperation…"

Bill leans back, tuning Vidic's spiel out and testing his binds again. One of the security guards hovering about him gives him a narrow look and he lets his shoulders relax. They know how to subdue an Assassin, more's the pity – there would be no getting out of the binds without a blade at least.

"…I had hoped we could preserve you, and study your memories, but you are not worth it anymore," Vidic says to the headset. "I hereby authorise the use of deadly force. Kill the bastard and then bring me the Apple!"

Bill glances up at him as Vidic turns sharply. "Not going so smoothly then?" he asks.

"Shut up," Vidic answers and taps at the tablet. "Quite the murderer, your son. He was one of the most docile men when he came to us, wouldn't hurt a fly, and now look at it. Clearly, being with you Assassins has done _good_ for him. He's a mindless butcherer now, just like the rest of his ilk"

"Yes, because your human experiments, manipulations, mind control, kidnapping?" Bill jostles the chair he's bound in. "That's not violent at all."

"We are trying to improve humanity, release us from our base urges and meaningless, worthless desires," Vidic scoffs. "Bring us forth to another, better age. You assassins just want to preserve the status quo at all cost necessary. Never mind the fact that the status quo is obviously not working."

"Have you taken a look at the world lately, Vidic?" Bill asks, disgusted. "Humanity has never been as peaceful as it is now."

"No thanks to you," Vidic says and then stops to stare at the tablet, his face blank for a moment and then growing, slowly, horrified. He hits the comms again, his hand shaking. "You… you killed him," he says.

Bill frowns. By this point, if he's right about the process Desmond is making through the place… Desmond must've killed a lot of people.

Then Vidic continues and it makes more sense. "Daniel was like a son to me… a sickly son perhaps, but one full of promise," he says and paces forward and then back again. "He accomplished so much and so well… and now you've taken him from me! From us!"

Bill looks up at the mad bastard dubiously. If what Vidic had done to Cross could be considered _fatherly_ then Bill himself is father of the year material, clearly.

Vidic goes into another rant about wanting to save the world from itself, pacing up and down along the office in nervous, furious agitation, his words growing more fervent and zealous with each moment… more crazed. It's more than slightly disturbing that this mad bastard is the head of the Animus project – but then again… it would take one mad bastard to come up with the thing in the first place.

"We _enrich_ lives here, we _save_ them!" Vidic shouts into the comms, at Desmond. "And _transform_ them! But you… You just keep taking and taking _what – isn't – yours_!"

And that's when the doors open, and there is Desmond, slightly out of breath, with blood splatters all over his white hoodie, a gun in hand. His face is set in surprisingly calm expression but his eyes gleam with determination.

Bill draws a breath and releases it slowly. It's foolish, all of it, Desmond shouldn't have come. But oh, what an _Assassin_ his boy makes.

"Not so fast Mr. Miles –" Vidic says with forced calm and then Desmond takes out the Apple of Eden.

It happens very fast, almost too fast for Bill to pick up on what Desmond does before it's already over. The Apple lights up like a torch, beams of light radiating from its core, before tendrils of light lash out at the people in the room, at the security guards – at Vidic.

Seven gunshots in near unison and then one more as the guard that shot Vidic shoots himself in the head, and then they're alone, surrounded by bodies.

"I'm done listening to him," Desmond says and looks at Bill. "It gets a little stale after a while."

Bill opens his mouth and then closes with a snap. "You never should have come here –"

"Shut up dad," Desmond says and then shoves the Apple away. "The hell else was I going to do, really?" He comes forward and snaps the binds and while Bill is rubbing at his wrists, Desmond leans over him – and grabs the power source from the table. "The power source was here," he says. "What was I going to do, just leave it?"

Bill stares at him with surprise. "Ah," he says then, a little surprised. Well, that… that was surprising. And surprisingly cold and pragmatic of Desmond. He shouldn't feel hurt, just little while ago he had thought something along the same lines, but… it's surprising nonetheless.

And so is the hug Desmond gives him, tight and quick as it is. "Sorry, couldn't help myself," Desmond says, and claps his back hard before pulling back. "You're an asshole and payback's a bitch."

Bill shakes his head. "For God's sake, son," he says, and runs a hand over his face. He feels like shouting and laughing and does neither. "Well done."

Desmond throws him a little grin, and then turns to leave. "Come on, dad, we got places to be."

"Yes, and a look at all the time we've lost," Bill mutters. And it's all because of him, too, because he got himself captured. What a showing from the Mentor of the Brotherhood. It's the fourteenth now, which leaves them with… "Seven days left to find the Key."

"That's not really necessary anymore," Desmond says while leading him towards the elevators.

"You found it already?" Bill asks and sighs. "At least there's _some_ good news in all of –"

"No, I didn't – it's not necessary anymore," Desmond says and glances at him over his shoulder. "We're not going back to New York. There's another temple in Italy, we're going there."

"You found something out, something new?" Bill asks as they step into the elevator. "I thought the Grand Temple was all we had?"

"Not all," Desmond shakes his head, hitting the button for the ground floor. "The Grand Temple is a trap – it's a prison. For Juno. The First Civ trapped her there because she's… _really_ bad news. All using the Grand Temple will do is release Juno back into the world."

Bill grimaces. There had been something off about the place – and about what Desmond had told them about Juno, what she wanted, how she acted. And Lucy… "I see," he murmurs. "So we were just wasting our time."

"Not exactly," Desmond says and pats his backpack. "With these power sources we can activate another temple – and this one will actually work."

Bill draws a breath and nods. He doesn't like it but… it's seven days until the end of the world – at this point Desmond is all they have for a hope of saving it. If Desmond says there is a way, Bill is more than willing to trust him. "Where are we going then?"

"I'll tell you in the van," Desmond says and glances around. "I really don't want Abstergo storming the place while we're trying to save the damn world."

"Good call," Bill mutters and together they make their escape.

* * *

 

While Desmond takes a post-mission nap – a well deserved one – in the back of the van, Bill leans in to talk with Shaun and Rebecca, sitting in the front seats. "What's this about new temple?"

"It's news to us too," Rebecca says, leaning her arm on the backrest and looking at him over her shoulder. "It's something Juno let slip that only Desmond heard – her trying to talk circles around him again. Desmond is dead certain it's going to work though and… it's Desmond."

"Could be her messing with his mind again," Shaun comments from behind the steering wheel. "But considering how mental she went when Desmond started unplugging the power sources, I think not. I reckon we're on the right track now."

"She put up bit of a howl, yeah," Rebecca says with a grimace and glances at Bill. "Went all banshee on us. Gotta tell you, I'm happy to be out of the place."

"I'll say," Bill says and glances back at Desmond, who half lying, half sitting in the back, hands tucked into his armpits and head listing to the side. He's got his hood on – to cushion his cheek against the metal of the wall. He looks tired – worn. There are shadows under Desmond's eyes Bill hadn't let himself notice, before.

"Maybe once this is over, we can finally give him a break," Rebecca says. "Little TLC in the Bahamas maybe."

"He definitely needs a break from the Animus," Shaun agrees.

"Hmm," Bill agrees. There is still much to be learned from Desmond's DNA – they've only scratched the surface on the breadth of his lineage and ability to draw from it. Of all the people Bill had ever seen go into the Animus… Desmond is the _clearest_ , the most in tune with the machine. With most subjects they get momentary foggy memories, mere fractions of moments. With Desmond, they get whole _lifetimes,_  crystal clear down to the smallest details. It's almost beyond comprehension, how pristine and preserved Desmond's genetic memories are.

If they survived and the world continued to turn, Desmond would eventually have to go into the Animus again. There's too much to be gained from it. But a break, certainly he would get a break. A month or two in some tropical island would do him good. Would do them all good, really.

If they got the chance.

"So where is this Temple of Desmond's?"

"Temple of Jupiter actually," Shaun says.

"It's in Pompeii," Rebecca says and takes out her phone, checking the GPS. "Better settle in for the long haul – it's about eight hour drive."

"In that case," Bill says and rubs at his eyes. He's been awake for two days straight and now that he's out of Abstergo's tender mercies… he feels it too. He's really not as young as he used to be, is he? "I think I too will have a nap."

* * *

 

Bill wakes up with a jerk to a hand on his shoulder. "We're here," Desmond says and then he's gone, leaving Bill to gather himself from the grips of sleep.

The van is silent around him, and Shaun and Rebecca are both gone – as Bill looks up, Desmond hops off the van as well, stretching as he steps into the sunlight. It's _very_ early in the morning and the light has a pale, faded quality to it. Around five a.m. judging by the looks of it.

Yawning, Bill sits up and then, rolling the kinks out of his shoulders, he too exits the van. "Where are we?" he asks, spotting Shaun stretching his legs little further away, while Rebecca is tapping madly at a laptop. They're parked on the side of the road and just over a small bit of field and some bushes and trees, Bill can see roman ruins. "Ah."

"Excavations of Pompeii," Shaun says and points. "Over there is Foro di Pompei, the Forum. The temple of Giove, that is to say _Jupiter_ , is at the north end of it, over there. It is a tourist site, though, so…" he glances towards Desmond. "How are we going to do this?"

"I'm hacking the security cameras around here," Rebecca says. "Looping footage so we shouldn't be raising any alarms around here. There aren't that many cameras around here – luckily for us, the place is a bit of an open site. So as long as we don't do anything… too unusual, I think we'll be fine."

"Luckily for us," Desmond agrees and narrows his eyes. They gleam golden in the sunlight for a moment. "This way."

Getting into the Forum is easy enough task – the place is rather open. There are few fences and gates but they're not enough of an obstacle for four assassins – soon, they're walking through the ruins.

"I've visited this place once with my parents when I was a kid," Shaun admits while peering around. "Bit more people back then."

"Yeah, it's creepy how quiet it is," Rebecca says.

Desmond says nothing, leading them silently through the ruins. Bill casts him a glance and then looks ahead. They'd never done the tourist thing as a family, obviously not. For the first time Bill wonders if Desmond feels the lack of it, those normal family memories.

The temple of Jupiter is an open one – its roof, like most every roof in the area, is long gone, and only some broken walls and pillars remain. Compared to some other Roman sites Bill had visited over the years in search for clues and hints as to the First Civilisation and the Pieces of Eden, it's… not much to look at.

Desmond seems utterly spellbound by the place though, all but stalking up the ancient steps and easing past the crumbling pillars into the open ruins of the temple.

"So, now what, mate?" Shaun asks somewhat nervously. "No puzzles here, nothing to open. No pedestals or slots to slap the Apple to. Where are we going to get inside? Wherever ‘inside’ is anyway…"

"We aren't," Desmond agrees and crouches down, brushing his hand over the rough stone. "That was never the point of this place. It wasn't supposed to be found."

"Desmond?" Bill asks and then hesitates, as Desmond closes his eyes and bows his head, falling into what looks like half meditative state.

Silence stretches, odd and tense, over the ruins as they watch and wait for Desmond to do whatever it is he's doing. Bill shares a look with Shaun and Rebecca, who look around themselves nervously to avoid from thinking too hard about what it is Desmond is doing. Bill doesn't, though it is uneasy.

Sometimes Desmond's abilities don't seem quite human, do they? His affinity with the precursor technology is a little too intimate to pass for normal.

Desmond exhales slowly and the stones under them shudder – and begin shifting apart. A staircase opens up, stone by stone, in front of them, and as particles of sand and dirt pour down, Desmond rises to his feet. There's a glimmer of light ahead of them.

"They cannot come."

Bill looks up, as does everyone else, as a golden figure appears to hover over the staircase leading into the depth. It's not Juno, thank god, and neither is it Minerva. It's a male figure, bearded and crowned in long flowing robes. Jupiter, then.

"I have received your code. What is here is here only for you, Cipher," Jupiter says in strange, echoing voice of the First Civilisation members. "There is no energy to spare for the others. Even with the power sources you have brought, there is only enough for the purpose you are here."

"I know," Desmond says and hangs his head for a moment. Then he turns to look at them.

And Bill knows, just like that, he _knows_. If Desmond goes down there… he will never come out again.

"Desmond," Shaun says slowly, warily. "What's going on?"

"It's a bit complicated," Desmond says with a half a smile and half a grimace and looks at Jupiter who shakes his head slowly. Desmond sighs. "It's… very complicated, but I have to do this. I'm sorry."

"Desmond," Bill says and steps forward. "What is this, what will this place do?"

"Hopefully, help me save the world before it even gets in danger," Desmond shrugs and bows his head a little. "I don't know how to explain, I don't think it even matters. After I go in there, it… won't make a difference."

Bill searches his son's face, so strange and so familiar – Desmond really grew into his nose and cheekbones while he was away and it strikes Bill _hard_ now, how handsome their son grew up to be. He has his mother's eyes too, they suit him beautifully. "There has to be another way," Bill says quickly. "Whatever this place is, however it works – there is still time. We're still days away from the event, there is still time."

"There isn't," Desmond says and shakes his head. "There are two options. This place or the Grand Temple. And the Grand Temple is… not a good idea." He sighs. "Either way, I'll be gone. If I have to choose between two ways to go, I'll take this one."

"But what will it do?" Rebecca asks. "What does this place do?"

Desmond shakes his head. "What matters is that it'll work. I know it will, and better than the Grand Temple."

Bill clasps him by the shoulders, looking at his face, searching his eyes. Desmond avoids looking at him at first, awkward, and then he sighs and looks up. His expression is set – a little sat, but determined. There is no hesitation in his eyes.

"I'm sorry dad," he says. "But I'm doing this."

I only just got you back, Bill wants to say. I only just realised what I lost and what I've regained. There are so many things I want to tell to you, apologise for. There are so many unspoken things left, so many grudges and mistakes to go over. I wanted to make peace with you. Whatever happened, I wanted it to happen with clear air and no more unspoken bitterness.

But if he's learned anything of Desmond these past few weeks is that he will, indeed, do damn well what he wants to. Even and especially walking away if he thinks he must.

Bill sighs, and then pulls Desmond into a hug. "I'm sorry, son. I'm sorry for everything," he says, trying to squeeze good twenty years worth of apologies into as few words as possible. "And I am so proud. I'm sorry I never said as much, but I am."

Desmond swallows against his shoulder and Bill can hear his breathing rattling wetly in his nose as he inhales. "Thanks, dad," he whispers. "I'm sorry too."

Bill holds him a moment longer – and maybe if he never lets go, then this will never have to happen. They will have more time, he can take Desmond to some tourist trap far away from cameras where the boy could finally have a break and they could pretend, just for a moment, to be a normal family. Maybe if he never lets go, Desmond will never again leave.

In the end, Desmond pries his hands off. Bill steps back, awkward, and then watches how Desmond quickly and tightly hugs Rebecca, murmuring something to her hair, before turning to Shaun – who, despite making pretence of trying to avoid it, hugs Desmond just as tight as Rebecca had.

"Thank you," Desmond says to them, clasping Shaun by the shoulder and Rebecca around the neck. "For everything."

Rebecca nods, swallowing, tears already leaking down her chin, while Shaun grits his teeth, his cheek flexing as if he too isn't misty eyed. Desmond looks at them and then squeezes them again, before turning away.

"Are you ready, Cipher?" Jupiter says and motions to the stairs. "It is time to start."

"Yeah, no time like the present," Desmond answers. He draws a shuddering breath and he doesn't look back as he steps forward… and then down. Every step he takes into the dark depths of the hidden temple tears something from Bill's chest, something he didn't even know was there.

The stones of the staircase close in after Desmond, like a tomb enfolding around him and like that, he's gone.

For a long while they stare at where the staircase had appeared and where it had eventually disappeared like it had never been there. Then, as Rebecca and Shaun exchange confused, unhappy looks, Bill looks away and rubs his fingers over his eyes.

"Damn it Desmond," he murmurs. How the hell are they supposed to continue now? What the hell are they supposed to do now?

"Now what?" Shaun asks.

Bill shakes his head. "I don't know," he says wearily. "Wait to see what happens. Then get the hell out of here. Hope to god that whatever this thing is, it works."

"He took the Apple with him," Rebecca comments, her voice choked.

"I guess he needs it to activate whatever it is," Shaun says.

"Either way, it's out of templar hands," Bill says. "And if it saves the world…"

In the end, it doesn't matter.

Moment later, the Temple activates far below their feet, it's systems coming online around Desmond and Jupiter, who gives his final quiet warning to the man who is about to change history. Desmond accepts the words with silent nod – and then he is gone.

And soon after, so are the world and the time he leaves behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're off.


	3. Chapter 3

The very first thing Desmond does in the past is assault a priest.

At least, he thinks it's a priest. It's a man with dark grey robes, in the Vatican, being all priestly with prayer beads and everything, so he doesn't think he's too far off in his assumption that the guy is a priest. But it might've been a monk too. For all the time he'd spend jumping around in Renaissance Italy, he had never really gotten that good at the nuance of priesthood of the time.

In either case, he assaults a religious man in dark robes, in the Vatican, and that's how he starts his time in whatever year it was that Jupiter had dropped him in. The man is puttering around in the otherwise vacant Sistine Chapel, lighting candles and murmuring prayers when Desmond sneaks up on him and then puts him in a sleeper hold.

It's almost too easy. The man struggles, but can't break the hold and moment later the pressure around his throat sends the man into unconsciousness, and Desmond can ease him onto the floor, slow and easy. Reflexes born from years – weeks, days – spend living Ezio's life makes him look around, expecting squad of guards to round the corner any moment and spot him, but there's no one there but him and the now unconscious robed man.

Every noise seems to echo on forever though, unbearably sharp and loud in the place. It's almost as if his very heart beat, pounding hard and panicked in his chest, is echoing off the high, smooth walls. But no one comes.

"Sorry, brother," Desmond mutters to the unconscious man – and then he strips the robe off the guy, shrugging it on quickly and winding the belt around his waist as nearly as he can. He's about half a foot taller than the guy was and the robes don't cover everything perfectly. Damn it.

"Well, needs must. I'm sure you understand," Desmond says to the unconscious with a grimace, and pulls the man's cowl on as well. It smells like sweat and wet hair and incense. Wonderful.

It's been a while since Ezio's forays into the Vatican – well, relatively speaking anyway – but Desmond had made lot of mistakes during the times he'd been jumping around in the place, having to relieve the memory couple of times. It's enough to give him some semblance of a mental map of the place and so, with the priest's – or monk's, whichever the guy was – cowl pulled quickly up and over his face, Desmond turns to leave.

First order of business; get the hell out of the Vatican before someone notices the hoodie or the jeans or, for Christ's sake, the 21st century _sneakers_ he's wearing.

Actually…

Desmond hesitates on that and then turns back to the stripped down man on the floor. "Sorry again," he says again, wincing a guiltily – and then pulls the man's soft leather shoes off as well. He can't put them on here, that would leave him carrying his own shoes around and being as colourful as they are they would stand out like sore thumb… but later, once it was safe to get rid of his sneakers, they would come in handy.

Then Desmond hesitates a moment longer. It feels a bit like kicking the guy while he's down but…

Oh, to hell with it.

Desmond rummages through the man's remaining clothes, just in case – and comes away with a small satchel of coins. "Not like there's hell for me to go to anyway," Desmond says and pockets the coins. "Sleep well, brother."

With that bit of crime done, he turns to finally leave the chapel and its unconscious caretaker behind. The first steps outside are nerve wrecking, echoing on and on sharp and _off_ – rubber soles on ancient stone, it just doesn't _sound_ right – but Desmond presses on. It's not like he cannot. If he stays here, looking like he does, having the clothes and the weapons he does…

Damn Jupiter, dropping him right into the Vatican Vault. Couldn't put him in the Coliseum one, could he? Though on other hand, Juno… Minerva hadn't been activated by Desmond's presence – his arrival wasn't something she'd foreseen then – but Juno was more active. She would've noticed him and probably tried to do something about him.

Still, right in the middle of the _Vatican_ …

Gritting his teeth Desmond hurries forward, down and to the long winding corridors and to the Basilica – where, of course, there were people. And guards, going their rounds in the corridors, clanking in their armour and armed to the teeth. Great.

There is a Cardinal ahead of him, talking with some other men in dark cloaks like the one Desmond had stolen. Desmond bows his head quickly, folding his hands together to hide the fact that he's carrying some guy's stolen shoe – thankfully the sleeves are wide enough to hide them.

Maybe he has the luck of the ancient roman gods with him because no one stops him or tries to talk to him and he manages to slip by without anyone stopping him.

He's not so lucky in the next room.

"Good morning, brother," someone speaks in Italian, and just by the direction of the voice Desmond can tell it's aimed at him. "I didn't know we had a new one. Are you here to replace Brother Octavian?

Desmond considers, just for a moment, of speaking and pretending he really is some new monk or whatever, and then trying to make his exit quickly and hopefully without causing alarm. But, he's wearing someone's stolen robes that are too small for him – and what are the chances he could pull it off, though, especially with the accent he probably has? Desmond knows he can speak Italian now, thanks to Ezio, but it's never really been put to the test – he probably speaks it like foreigner.

He's never been that good at charades either.

So, bowing his head a bit lower, Desmond continues down the corridor. He just needs to get through the door, if he just gets through the door, it's just another corridor until the front yard of the Basilica and –

"Wait, brother," the man behind him calls and then, sharper. "You – what are you wearing in your – guards!"

 _Damnit_.

Desmond breaks into a dash, just as the guard at the end of the corridor looks up and then makes to close the door. Desmond shoulders into it, hard enough for the blow to rattle him all the way down to his hips, but there's no time to break the fall. He takes the guard down with him as he goes and then, using the man's body as a spring board, he dashes forward. Or tries to.

The hem of the robes he's wearing gets caught under foot, all but tangled in the tread of the rubber soles of his sneakers and he goes into another sharp fall.

" _Fuck_ ," Desmond yelps – and then goes into a roll, bracing the fall with arms over his head and his head tucked towards his chest. It's not the most graceful summersault and he lands hard on his ass, but it keeps him from banging his chin onto _stone_ so, he calls it a win.

Then he struggles back to his feet and before the guard can recover from Desmond slamming into him, he runs, holding onto the hems of the robes he's wearing like goddamn princess on the run. He body slams into another guard and rushes through the half open doors just behind the man, while shouts break out behind him, "Guards, guards, we have an intruder –!"

Then he's in the Basilica court yard, and _holy shit._

There's Rodrigo Borgia standing not far from him, surrounded by guards and Cardinals, all done up in golden robes of the Pope – staring right fucking at him.

Desmond's hood had fallen off somewhere during running and falling and hastily he pulls it on – but it's not only too late, but he pulls on the _wrong hood_ , tugging on his hoodie hood up rather than the cowl. His _white_ hoodie hood.

"Assassin!" the goddamn _Pope_ snarls and steps back, behind the guards. "Kill him! Stop him!"

"God damn it," Desmond hisses and then, as the guards rush forward with pikes and swords aimed at him, Desmond turns to the nearest piece of not so smooth wall – hurriedly scrambles up it. The shouting in the Basilica grows louder, there are men coming after him, scaling the wall like he'd done, while Desmond grabs the robe hem and then sets out in a dash over the rooftop.

It's almost nostalgic. And better yet, despite how Ezio's memories had made it seem, men in heavy armour do not have easy time scaling rooftops. Couple of them fall all without anyone pushing them, slipping off the slates and tumbling over.

It's kind of hysterical.

And then someone starts shooting arrows at Desmond and it's slightly less fun.

Time to get the hell out of there, Desmond decides and then quickly scans around for his escape route. Over the roofs, over the walls, and right into the Tiber river. Piece of cake.

"Stop, assassin!" someone shouts and arrow whizzes right past Desmond's cheek, as he sets out in a mad dash for escape. The whole district is being roused up around him, feet and armour and weapons clattering down on the streets below as someone starts ringing a warning bell – and _there's_ the echoes of Altaïr now, and his many oh so graceful escapes from roused up cities.

Desmond shakes his head at them, refusing to even glance the way of the white ghost of a memory racing up ahead – he doesn't have the time for it now. Not with arrows being fired at his way and –

A gunshot echoes over the rooftops and Desmond almost skitters to a panicked halt. It missed – judging by the ping of roof tile breaking little ahead of him, the guy over-compensated the shot. But they have fire arms aimed at him now and even though they're not yet even advanced to the point of being flint lock types… gun is a gun.

" _Damn_ it, Jupiter, had to put me in the god damn _Vatican_ , did you," Desmond mutters, and then drops down onto the streets below – he's bound to be assaulted by guards, but he'll be less of a target down there than up on the roofs.

"Stop right there!" someone shouts and then, of course, he's surrounded by guards. Four of them, in full papal guard regalia, with pikes and swords and all.

"Oh fuck it," Desmond mutters and then tears the robes off. There's a guard already coming at him, and quickly Desmond throws the heavy black cloth at him before taking out his knife in a reverse grip, the hidden blade shrieking out of its automatic sheath on his right arm. "Let's do this then, you bastards."

It's definitely different, fighting armed and armoured guards in real life like this. Desmond has his real-world combat experience now, of course, he's gone through enough Abstergo guards to earn him a damn medal at this point – or at future point, anyway – but this… this is different.

There are no soft bellies here to sink his knife to – these men are all covered in metal from nearly head to toe. They're also trained in combat in way most security guards armed with side arms and stun guns don't tend to be. There are few openings in their guard, and they're all perfectly willing to kill him.

What they aren't, though, is prepared for actual martial arts.

Desmond takes the first man out by dancing past the trust aimed at him, grabbing the man's outstretched wrist while sticking his foot around the man's ankle and sending him spilling face flat on the ground. Crouch and downward swipe, and his knife shrieks in and out past the metal plates of the man's armour just at his shoulder, sinking in somewhere in the vicinity of his heart – definitely takes out a lung at least.

While the first soldier gurgles in agony on the floor, two more attack. The first almost makes a hit before Desmond ducks, the second going for a swing with a sword which Desmond meets with the sheath of his hidden blade. Edge of the sword cuts his arm, but it's shallow and while the man shifts his footing to go for another blow, Desmond twists under him and sticks his knife in to the opening on the man's armpit, where the armour gives away to allow movement.

Then Desmond has to roll away from another blow, as one of the remaining two guards comes at him with a pike. It hits the cobblestone street hard enough to cause sparks and then turns around for a thrust instead, the spike at the top coming right at him. Desmond directs it to the side with his knife and then, as the guard is thrown slightly off balance, he thrusts his hand at the man's face, the heel of his palm catching the man's visor – the hidden blade protruding from under it sinking in the guy's eye.

The fourth man hesitates, sword aimed at him, adjusting his footing nervously like he's not sure if he wants to try it.

Desmond makes the decision for him, turning to face him, peering at him from under his hood. "Run," he says – and the guy runs.

And, once he's rummaged through the guard's pockets of course, so does Desmond.

It takes couple more run-ins with guards and couple near misses with arrows and bullets before Desmond finally, _finally_ makes it to the edges of the Vaticano District. While guards come after him from all sides, with archers on the roofs, Desmond glances around – there's the Ponte Sant'Angelo, all too far for him to reach it and crawling with guards besides.

Into the water it is, then.

"Halt!" someone shouts as Desmond takes the wall separating the streets from the Tiber river in three running steps, hopping onto the wall and diving right into the river.

* * *

 

The moment Desmond finds himself some more _local_ clothing, he gets rid of his own ones. And if he finds the clothes he wants worn by another man – one bit more closer to his height and build than the poor guy back in Sistine Chapel, thankfully – then so be it. He's a little beyond pity after his little dive into the Tiber River.

It had been _disgusting_ and the less said about the aftermath the better.

The guy he snatches up from an alleyway and leaves unconscious in some bushes doesn't look rich enough to raise too much noise about his stolen clothes - the clothes are a little rough and patched up several times, what little colour they had ever had faded by time. Still, Desmond leaves the man some coins, hopefully enough for the guy to either get a new set or enough liquor to forget the whole thing.

Speaking of liquor – alcohol is the very first thing he buys in Rome with his stolen money, which is kind of ironic actually. He buys it from a doctor's stall after peering at the guy's wares and trying not to squirm too badly at the sight of the glass jar of leeches or vial of mercury on display.

"Are you perchance studied in the art of medicine?" the hooded, beaked doctor asks while Desmond peers at one of the labels. "You seem very discerning."

"Hmm," Desmond answers, noncommittal and then motions at the bottle of what looks like some sort of alcohol. "Might if I test that?"

"What for?" the doctor asks, peering at him. "Do you have an upset stomach?"

No, just an open wound on his arm which had came into the contact of whatever was in Tiber river, and which Desmond _really_ wants to clean as thoroughly as he can as soon as possible.

"I got the coin," he offers, and then shows when the man just eyes him suspiciously. Of course it then takes ten florins before the man lets him so much as touch the bottle. Desmond hands them over with a grimace – he doesn't have that much coin as it is, and he doesn't much like the idea of having to steal more… but he likes the idea of an infection without antibiotics even less.

The bottle turns out to have some sort of early form of gin in it – it's not as hard as he'd like, but it's alcoholic enough to sting his nose.

"It will be quite bit more for that bottle than just ten florins," the doctor says with narrowed eyes. "Quite a bit more."

"How much for a splash of it?" Desmond asks.

It's another twenty florins for him to soak a piece of cloth in the alcohol – the ripped sleeve of his poor T-shirt, now resting in pieces. While the doctor watches him strangely, Desmond wipes his wound with the alcohol soaked cloth, hissing at the sting of it but bracing through it until his arm is numb and mostly clean. Then wraps his arm with shreds of what used to be the _rest_ of his shirt, hoping to god or _somebody_ he isn't about to get gangrene.

"That is a most curious medical practice," the doctor muses. "I do have the means of cauterization, you know."

"I think it'll be fine as it is. Give it a few centuries, disinfectants will be all the rage," Desmond snorts. "Thanks for the medicine."

"Thanks for the coins," the doctor says and shakes his head. "Be sure to come back when the wound putrefies."

"Yeah, I'll do that."

With the wound treated, Desmond head out to the streets of Rome, not entirely sure what to do next. He made it into the past alive, and he made out of the damn Vatican alive and unless his arm now rotted and fell off, he's off to a pretty good start.

Except that he has no idea what the hell to do next.

Taking a seat on a bench by a wall on some courtyard he can't remember the name of – if he ever even knew it – Desmond sighs and then tries to think the whole thing through.

He'd carefully avoided having expectations about where he'd end up or what he should do. Neither Jupiter nor Minerva had actually _told_ him what to do – Minerva had just stuffed his head full of knowledge and told him he'd change history, but Desmond got the feeling that how he did it was all up to him. Or rather, Minerva didn't _care_ how he did it, because in some way she already knew. And all Jupiter had to say was that once he was in the past, it couldn't be undone – only way to return to the future would be the slow way.

Which is to say, Desmond would be dead long before future ever came and would never see the end of it. He'd made his peace with that pretty quickly though – and few decades in the past was more than he was going to get in future anyway, what with the end of the world seven days away. Rome, with its lack of antibiotics and disinfectants and all that was bit more preferable to dying at twenty fucking _five_ …

But he'd kind of thought he'd end up in Florence. Or, at the very least, in _Venice_. Not in Rome.

Rodrigo Borgia the Pope dates his presence here, at least. The guy's papacy begun in… it had been around early 1490s. 1492 maybe? And then he died in 1503. So Desmond would be somewhere in between there, though he's not sure where, exactly. And Ezio arrived in Rome around 1500, wasn't it? Pretty much immediately after Monteriggioni had been attacked and more or less destroyed…

Running a hand over his chin, Desmond looks at the courtyard – or city square. There are people coming and going, women and men in renaissance period clothing – well, not really _period_ right now, is it? It's the present for them. It's beyond weird to see it all through his own eyes, rather than over Ezio's shoulder, but it's not as bad as he'd feared. The bleeding effect hasn't crippled him yet.

And if Ezio is walking through the square and Desmond is the only one to see it, then, so be it. He can ignore it for now – he's got some experience with it, ignoring his ghosts. With the Animus far in the future, his mind should recover from using from it and the hallucinations should stop finally. Probably. God, he hopes they will anyway.

Then Ezio _runs_ into a wealthy looking man in a colourful doublet, shoulder checking them lightly and continuing on as if nothing had happened, while behind him the man pats around his waist and finds his purse missing. "My – my coin! I've been robbed!" the man shouts and whirls around – but Ezio has already disappeared into the crowd, whistling as he goes.

Desmond stares after his ancestor, his face slack with astonishment.

Sometime in the 1500's it is, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical accuracy of this fic is gonna be so and so and I'm going to treat historical characters as fictional ones - pretty much how AC does anyway. So I am not terribly interested in keeping them historically accurate.
> 
> And yeah, there's gonna be bit of an age gap between Desmond and Leonardo, if I ever even get to that part. Leonardo was born in 1452, so he's 47-ish right now compared to Desmond's 25. So, that's a thing. (Though considering that Leonardo and Salaì also had a age gap of about 28 years...)


	4. Chapter 4

Ezio reaches for the edge of the rooftop and then, with a quiet grunt, pulls himself up. It's harder these days, to climb these tall buildings, but reaching that final ledge is still so satisfying – victory over gravity that even after all these years never refuses to give him that small, boyish thrill.

"We do have stairs indoors, even a ladder or two, all perfectly serviceable."

Ezio shakes his head, crouching on the edge of the rooftop for a moment before straightening up with a sigh, his knees complaining a little. "It's a way to keep in shape," Ezio admits. It also, almost perversely, helped with his back, to force it straight on the side of a building. Nothing quite like reaching for high ledges to straighten the kinks out of your spine. "I hear you have something for me?"

Machiavelli turns away from the city he had been examining, hands clasped behind his back. "I can't promise it's quite as exciting as scaling walls," he says. "Nor can I promise it is terribly important, but I have heard a rumour from the Vatican District. Have you had a reason to visit it in a while?"

"Not in a while, no," Ezio agrees, digging a knuckle onto his lower back. "The guards are bit too excitable over there."

"So I have heard," Machiavelli agrees and turns away. "And yet, I have also heard a rumour of an Assassin, attacking the Pope."

Ezio stops in mid stretch to look at the other man, while Machiavelli looks at him from the corner of his eyes. "You know the last I visited the Vatican," Ezio says and folds his arms. "We thought it was better to let the Papal forces settle for a while, ease them into false sense of security."

Not that it's terribly false, really.

"And Beatrice?"

"She's been with me, training," Ezio says with a frown and steps closer. "She will be ready to take missions soon but she is not skilled enough to brace the Vatican. And I assure you, neither of us has been near the Pope."

"As you say," Machiavelli says and turns to face him. "Still, the district is roused up. A man with a white hood was seen emerging from the Sistine Chapel, first disguised as a monk and then racing the rooftops unmasked. They speak of him fighting like the devil with a knife – and a blade that stuck out from a sheath from his inner arm. They say he got within a knife throwing distance of the Pope in the St. Peter's Basilica before even being discovered."

Ezio hums at that. "That is no small task," he says and considers it. He could manage it, perhaps, if he wished to – but currently threatening the life of Rodrigo Borgia would only make this worse in the city. It would only give excuse for the Papal forces to strengthen their presence in the city – and Cesare to increase his armies even further. Even if such an assassination was successful…

"How trustworthy are these rumours?" Ezio asks, turning his eyes to Machiavelli.

"Trustworthy enough to have left bodies behind," Machiavelli answers. "As it is, I had the word by the way of Rosa in Fiore."

"You talked with my sister?"

"One of her girls delivered the message early this morning," Machiavelli answers and then looks him over. "There are rumours now, of guards doubled at the Vatican District – which is why the message was send to us. I understand the assumption was that it was _you_ at the Basilica."

"It was not," Ezio says and shakes his head grimly. "And Beatrice shows promise but that is not within her skills, not for some time yet. It was none of us."

"Then… we have a pretender to our name in the city," Machiavelli says darkly. "Or worse yet; it is all theatre and the Borgia are now inventing their own incidents to besmirch our efforts."

"Hmm," Ezio agrees. "Do we know anything else of the incident?"

"According to what has been revealed, the assassin in question fled into the Tiber," Machiavelli says and turns to face him fully. "All they know about his appearance is that his hair is shorn short and he has very little facial hair."

Ezio gives Machiavelli a flat look. The man knew the supposed assassin was male and fits neither his nor Beatrice's appearance and still pushed forth suspicions. "I will see if I can find out more," he says and turns for the ledge, fully intending to jump out of this discussion before Machiavelli can spin him around again.

"He also, it seems," Machiavelli interrupts his Leap, "has a scar across his lips."

Ezio frowns and glances at the man over his shoulder. Machiavelli's eyebrows arch slightly. "So you understand my confusion. Try the Rosa in Fiore first," the Mentor of the Brotherhood says and turns to head back indoors. "Likely the courtesans know more by now."

Ezio sighs, and then jumps off the roof.

* * *

 

Going to Rosa in Fiore is always bit of a two edged blade for Ezio. It is already one of the finest bordello's in Rome, boasting the prettiest, healthiest girls and cleanest, quietest beds, and it's an advertisement Ezio can well get behind. It is also, however, run by his sister and serves as the home to his mother. Somehow, that always manages to dampen his passions a little.

To think he'd miss Sister Theodora so much – and Paola too, as much as she talked circles around him.

"Ezio," Claudia says as soon as Ezio has been let in. "To what do we owe this _pleasure_?"

She's still annoyed with him, judging by the tone of her voice. Maria Auditore da Firenze is sitting by a divan not far from them, reading a story book judging by the looks of it – she only glances up and then her eyes drift down to the pages again, her expression slightly listless. Not a good day for her, then,

"Sister," Ezio greets Claudia. "Machiavelli had word of some interesting events in the Vatican – something your girls discovered, I hear. I had hoped you would have more for me."

"I thought you'd know all about it – it was you, wasn't it?" Claudia asks and then frowns. "Not you? One of your recruits then?"

"There is only the one, and she does not sport a beard, I'm glad to say," Ezio says with faint smile. "And I haven't had the cause to visit the Vatican. No, it was someone else – pretender to our creed, or so Machiavelli thinks. I had hoped to learn more here."

"Hmm," Claudia answers and turns to her books. "I didn't write it down, fully – I thought it was you so I saw no point. Let me see – it was Adelina who first heard of it. There is a priest who lives in the district who frequents her. Few drinks into him and he sings like songbird. Tessa!" Claudia calls. "Is Adelina here?"

"Yes, Madame," one of the girls who is sitting near by brushing her hair says, and stands. "She is sleeping, I think, in the backroom – shall I get her?"

"See if Doretta is here, also," Claudia says and the girl Tessa turns to hurry away. "Doretta is favourite of a cardinal – I do not think she has been to see him in last few days, but I might send her over to find out more."

"Do not risk your girls for mere rumours," Ezio says warningly. "There are other means for me to find information. For now I will be satisfied to hear what your girl Adelina knows."

Claudia's face hardens and she rests her hands on her hips. "You don't think my girls can handle it, do you? They are all capable – and armed, I would like to add, to the _teeth_ in some cases. Courtesan's body is her greatest weapon – even greater than that of a killer."

Ezio sighs. "Peace, sister, I mean no insult," he says. "I know your girls are capable. But there is very real possibility these rumours are only fabrications by the Borgia, and if so, there is little need for in dept investigations."

Claudia settles a little at that, but he's managed to annoy her further now, and the look she gives him is pointed. "How is that girl of yours doing, then?" she asks. "What is her name? And how like you, to choose a woman."

"Beatrice Simone da Roma – and I do not see how her sex affects things," Ezio mutters, though perhaps he does, in the end. Machiavelli had certainly given him some pointed looks over it, as had La Volpe – he knows what both of them think of it. He is not terribly surprised that Claudia might share their notions, but he'd… hoped differently. "She is capable."

Claudia narrows her eyes. "I'm sure she is," she asks, voice full of meaning.

"I do not see how it matters that she is a woman," Ezio mutters. "She is only one of many – and no," he adds sharply. "I am not aiming to build up a Brotherhood of women. I aim to build up a Brotherhood of _capable people_ and so far, Beatrice is the only one who has stuck my eye as capable. That she is a woman is entirely incidental."

"So, _she_ is capable, this stranger that none of us know anything about, but I, _raised_ by Assassins and trained along _you_ , am not?" Claudia asks dangerously.

Ezio opens his mouth and then snaps it shut. Oh. So that's what this is. "Claudia, sister," Ezio says, lifting his hands in a placating gesture.

"Madame," a voice interrupts them before Ezio can think of something good and calming to say. It's new girl, one with red hair and freckles along her nose. She yawns, arching her body in most pleasing ways as she does. "You wanted me?"

"Yes, Adelina," Claudia says through gritted teeth. "Tell my brother what you learned from Father Edmondo."

"Yes Madame," the courtesan says and looks up to Ezio. She smiles, pretty, and Ezio lets himself gladly be distracted by the bow of her lips. "Father Edmondo had me last night, and we spent the early morning hours talking – he told me all about the events in the Vatican. He likes to vent his stress by complaining, you see, though he needs a little liquid courage to start."

According to Father Edmondo, the whole district had been in uproar about the attempt on the Pope's life. An assassin had gotten close indeed, wearing stolen robes of a monk, before he had been spotted and forced to flee. To hear it, it had been a great triumph by the Papal Forces to have sent the coward assassin fleeing the way he did, right through the district and finally into the waters of the Tiber River.

"Did they put a name to this assassin?" Ezio asks while the girl stretches – she is showing off now, he can tell by the teasing smile on her lips, she'd noticed him appreciating her. What a delightful vixen. "Did they try and indicate it was me?"

"Hmm," Adelina considers her, her eyes going wide in exaggerated thought. "No, I do not think they did – Father Edmondo did not mention anyone thinking it was you. There was something too," she says then and blinks. "They say his clothes were _very_ strange."

"Strange like mine?" Ezio asks, and can't quite help himself from spreading out his arms a little, letting the cape fold over his arm theatrically. He can all but feel the way Claudia rolls her eyes at him.

"No, not like yours," Adelina says, and it's quite satisfying to see her appreciating him in turn. "Father Edmondo said his clothes looked foreign. A very simple white doublet with a hood – very clean white. And his hose were odd."

"Odd how?" Ezio asks, frowning. "Like how the Ottomans wear theirs? Oriental maybe?"

"Just odd, sir," Adelina says and shakes her head. "Like they weren't hose at all."

"Hmm," Ezio hums, trying to picture it and failing.

"It's not much to go on," Claudia murmurs and glances his way. "Maybe Doretta can find out more?"

Ezio shakes his head. If the assassin really exists and isn't a Borgia invention then likely there isn't more to be learned from the Vatican itself. "When he dived into the Tiber, do you know where it was?" He asks Adelina.

"I think it was some ways from the bridge," she says. "On the western side."

"But still within eyesight of the bridge?"

"Yes, Ser Ezio."

"Hmm. Thank you," Ezio says and takes her hand to press a kiss on her knuckles. "You have been very helpful, my dear."

Claudia rolls her eyes. "Go on, Adelina," she says. "You look like you could use few more hours of sleep."

"Hmm, or I could use this," Adelina says, smiling teasingly while tracing Ezio's scar with her fingertip.

"I'm afraid _Ser Ezio_ is busy and must be off now. Go on, Adelina, off you get," Claudia says sharply and shoos her away, much to Ezio's disappointment. "You have everything you need."

"No, not all, more's the pity," Ezio sighs wistfully after Adelina, who waves back at him with her fingers before sashaying off, her hips rocking the most delightful way under her skirts. Now _that_ would have been a lovely way to spend an afternoon. "But I have enough to start with. There are often fishermen in that part of the river, perhaps one of them saw something. I'll go ask around."

Claudia nods and some of her annoyance gives away to worry. "Do you think it is an Assassin, then?" She asks. "Like you?"

"I don't know what he is, but if he was an Assassin, then he would have announced himself to Machiavelli, and he has not," Ezio says and turns to his sister. "I suspect Machiavelli might be right – it is a Borgia plot to defame us and give them excuse to strengthen their forces. But I will see if I can learn more."

Claudia nods. "I'm sure you will," she says and turns away. "Now get out of my house. My girls are busy – and so are you."

"And so am I," Ezio agrees with a sigh. Not that he can ever enjoy the hospitality of Rosa in Fiore with clear conscience – something about bordello run by family just makes it a guilty pleasure, with emphasis on the _guilt_.

Shaking his head, Ezio glances towards their mother. She is lost in her book, her eyes a little vacant – he's not sure she can read the words at all. She looks calm and well cared for, though. Sometimes, when she has a bad moment… it is all anyone can hope for. All he can hope for.

It's hard to look at her now, sitting there – the embodiment of all they'd lost. In that Claudia is so much stronger than he has ever been.

Ezio turns to leave, once more putting the past behind him. He has an assassin to find.

* * *

 

"Yes, I did saw some mad man swim through the Tiber. It was just over there – I was waiting to see him if he'd drown. He had a nice doublet on him, very clean, I thought it might be in need of a new owner soon."

It had taken Ezio some five fishermen – all of whom demanded coin for few unhelpful words about how, yes they had heard something happening over the river but no, they hadn't seen anything unusual. This last one informant isn't even a fisherman, but a beggar and a drunken lout missing more teeth than he owns with tunic that isn't so much stained as it is one big stain somehow given more physical form.

"What colour was it?" Ezio asks intently, ignoring the stench wafting off the man.

"The doublet – white, very nice white," the drunk says and hiccups. "Heard them once talking about snow up on the mountains – figure that's what it looks like, snow. But he didn't drown, so that's that."

The drunk sniffs and peers at him and then shakes his wooden cup meaningfully – so, with a sigh, Ezio drops few more coins in.

"Yeah, he came up just over there, climbed up a pole there," the beggar says and points. Ezio glances over – it's a little ways from the actual pier. "Jumped over them poles like it was a carnival game, I'll tell you. Then, poof, gone," the beggar points. "Over there. Haven't seen him since."

"What did he look like?" Ezio asks, considering. It's not very helpful – though now he knows the man actually exists and wasn't invented out of thin air.

"Wet," the beggar says and considers his cup. Deeming his contributions suitable, he adds. "Looked like he got hurt over there, had his sleeve all over blood. I figure if you're looking for him, you might want to start with a doctor."

Now _that_ is helpful. "Thank you my friend," Ezio says and throws in few coins extra. "If you happen to see him again, press it into your memory. I would pay you well for any news."

The beggar looks at him. "How well?" he asks consideringly.

He has something more then. "Depending on what you have, very well," Ezio promises.

The drunken beggar considers him for a moment. Then he considers the cup. Then he looks up at Ezio again, arching his brows.

It takes a little more coins than Ezio would be willing to part with in any other circumstances, but his purse is on the heavier side that day – and he could always refill it from the purses of others. Still, fifty florins is a lot to give to a beggar for piece of information, no matter how important it is…

And then the beggar produces what he has from a stash the man seems to keep under the pier.

"He threw 'em into the river, stuffed full of rocks," the beggar says while Ezio stares in complete bafflement. "Took me all morning to dive them back up. I was going to sell them – figure they'll fetch a pretty price if you find the right buyer. Maybe… maybe that buyer is you."

Ezio shoves his whole purse at the man.

* * *

 

"I do believe these are shoes," Machiavelli says slowly.

"You don't say?" Ezio says flatly.

They are shoe _shaped_ , anyway. But Ezio has never seen the like – and in Venice, you could see a lot of ludicrous nonsense coming from far away places. Including ridiculous foot wear. He'd even tried some himself – the wooden clogs from Holy Roman Empire, the ridiculous things they sometimes wore in Ottoman Empire. His favourite by far were the silk slippers that he'd once tried in the bedroom of a noble woman, originating according to her from the Orient; they hadn't fit but they seemed very comfortable. But these things…

They're mostly made of dark and stiff fabric, with pale soles and thick yarn threaded in crisscrossing pattern on top. They soles are flat and _strange_ , they do not look like they offer any support or protection – surely one must feel every rock under foot. And yet they seem well worn.

Machiavelli tests the odd soles, the same as Ezio had, bending the shoes slightly. "This material is very odd," he murmurs. "Yielding and soft and yet it seems sturdy. And these stitches, the way they are lined – and there is obviously cushioning inside the sides here," he turns the shoe he's holding. "The artistry that went into these is incredible. I haven't seen the like."

"Neither have I," Ezio says with a shake of his head. "I can't even pinpoint a land of origin on these – can you?"

"I cannot," Machiavelli admits and sets the odd footwear down. "And you are sure our assassin wore these?"

"Well, _someone_ did, and they sought to get rid of them – hide them. Knew they would mark them as foreigner," Ezio answers and folds his arms, turning to him. "I think there's more to this man than just his assassination attempt on Rodrigo Borgia. If that even is what happened."

Machiavelli nod, looking troubled. "I think we could use better expertise here, in identifying the origin of these," he says. "Have you seen your friend from Vinci lately, by any chance?"

Ezio blinks and then looks at the odd footwear. Yes, if anyone could tell them anything about these shoes, it would be Leonardo. "I can see if I can find him," he says and presses his lips together. "The Borgia keep him busy, and rare are the times he manages to safely slip away. And I will not risk his life for us."

"If it occurs that he can slip away, see if he can visit us here at Tiber Island," Machiavelli says. "We have a commission for him, at any rate."

"We do?" Ezio asks, frowning. Leonardo is building his war machines for the Borgia, sure, but if Machiavelli thinks that they too will be using such things…

"You are building our numbers now, Ezio, and as such, we need more tools," Machiavelli says and pats his arm – where, under the sleeve of his doublet, he too has a hidden blade. "Soon, Beatrice will require her blade, and we haven't the means of making them ourselves. And she is only the first of many, according to you."

Ezio nods slowly. "You are right," he says and pushes away from the table, looking over the hall of the Tiber Island hideout. It looks so empty – he cannot help but envision it full. Full of recruits – full of _Assassins_ , skilled and lethal. Beatrice is indeed only first of many he intends to recruits – there will be others. Many, many others.

"Then?" Machiavelli asks, single brow arched at him.

"I'll see what I can do. It might take days, though, that is how it goes by necessity with Leonardo, but he would appreciate the money, so I doubt he'd decline our commission," Ezio muses. "The Borgia, it seems, do not have enough to pay their employees."

"Hmm. One has to wonder about the state of their coffers, then," Machiavelli hums and considers the shoes. "I'll see if my informants can find any other strange articles of clothing our assassin friend might have discarded. If his attire matches his shoes in it's oddity… in all likelihood he is wearing it no longer."

Which will make finding the man that much harder. "Let me know if you do find anything," Ezio says and pushes away from the table. "In the meanwhile I have a doctor to find."

"Doctor?" Machiavelli asks. "You are not sick, are you, Ezio?"

"Not I, but our assassin friend came out of Tiber River bleeding," Ezio shrugs. "He took a wound to the arm somewhere during his escape. With any luck he sought out the local doctor for aid – it might give me clue as to what he might be wearing now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple points;
> 
> 1\. Since everyone is speaking Italian, they won't be speaking... Italian. A, because what and B, because I don't speak Italian. Probably still going to get the Italian wrong.  
> 2\. The OC Assassins. There will be OC Assassin recruits, which will be based on the beautiful ducklings from my play through of Assassin's Creed Brotherhood. Beatrice Simone was the first and she was the first to rise to the rank of Assassin and I was very proud her. But I also wondered, a lot, about what the actual in-character reaction would be to Ezio training a young, pretty, female Assassin. Especially since at that time Claudia hadn't yet had her ceremony.  
> 3\. Investigations are fun.  
> 4\. Double chapter dayyy!
> 
> That's all.


	5. Chapter 5

After glancing around to make sure there are no guards anywhere within eyesight, Desmond reaches up and quickly rips the wanted poster of Ezio Auditore da Firenze off the wall.

There have been lot of differences between this place and his memories. For one, the smell – memories didn't quite cover the smell of things, how it lingers in the streets. Distances are also entirely wrong – Rome is a lot bigger here than it had been in the Animus, where streets and buildings and pretty much _everything_ had been sort of squished together.

Reality, minimised for optimal performance, Desmond muses. Now there's a concept that won't make sense for five hundred years or so. If ever.

Another thing that is different is the rooftops. Whether it had been Rebecca cheating and making things a little bit easier for him or some carry over from Altaïr like Desmond had suspected, the so called _rooftop gardens_ are missing. He'd been intending to find one and sleep in it – something he'd always wondered in the Animus, whether or not Ezio ever just chilled in one of those things, having a bit of siesta. They'd seemed cosy, safe place to sleep to him, and he'd wanted to try one out.

But turns out they don't really… exist in reality. That had been bit of a bummer. Especially since looking for them he'd gotten chased around by guards in four different occasions.

He'd ended up sleeping in some public stables – up in the hayloft. It was an itchy night and he's pretty sure he might have fleas now, but, whatever. As first nights in new places went, it wasn't nowhere near the worst he'd ever had.

Still, it's a weird relief to see that _some_ things are the same. Like the wanted posters. It hadn't been pinned twelve feet high, maybe, but it had been there, on the wall of an alleyway, pinned there by a couple of nails. Ezio's likeness in it is reduced to the easily identifiable features – the clothes, the hood, the way he wears his cape. The reward is… high, as much as Desmond can judge the price of things in this time.

Taking the poster down probably doesn't magically reduce Ezio's notoriety in the city, though. Reality doesn't have alarm gauges, and people don't forget things instantly.

Peering over the text, Desmond sits down to a nearby bench, thinking.

Ezio had disappeared into the crowd before he had managed to figure out what he wanted to do about his ancestor. He still isn't sure, really. Getting involved with Ezio would probably reduce his available lifespan by decade or three, as cruel as it is to say – life around Master Assassins has that side effect. But at the same time, Ezio and Assassins in general are involved with lot of historically important things and Desmond is supposed to change history.

And, Ezio knows Leonardo da Vinci. And he'd ran into Copernicus too. Or _will_ run into, depending on whether that has happened yet or not.

For a moment Desmond just stares at the sketch of Ezio on the rough paper, indecisive. Then, with a thoughtful hum, he lays the poster flat on the bench and starts folding it into a paper airplane.

Getting into contact with the right minds of the age would probably help him with his so-called mission. Being nobody who came from nowhere, no one would listen to him even if he started to preach the gospel of gravity and aerodynamics and the laws of thermodynamics or whatever – and _damn_ , that's guilt right there, the idea that he might be about to steal the accomplishments of future great minds. Still, he needs… help somehow.

… or he could just steal money, buy himself some paper and ink, and start posting heretic ideas all over the city and see what became of that. Could be hilarious. Probably hazardous to his health, but hilarious. Scientific propaganda. Hah.

Desmond looks up as he hears the march of feet on stone – another contingent of guards, marching down the alleyway. Rome has a lot of Borgia guards all over the damn place, marching around and shaking people up if they so much as hint of opposing the current rule in any way.

"Hey, what are you doing – is that a poster?" one of the guards asks.

"Taking down wanted posters is forbidden," another guard says and while Desmond glances down to the half finished paper plane, they move to circle him. "You're coming with us," the guard says. "Get up."

"Unless," one of the guards says and leans down, grinning at him. "Unless you're willing to pay your fine, right here and now."

Desmond sighs – wonderful, just wonderful, here he is minding his own business and still he gets into trouble. Rome is so hostile these days. "I don't have money," he says flatly and finishes folding the paper plane. The last florin he had, he used to buy the worst piece of bread he'd ever eaten – and then suffered half an hour of hiccups after it. "Can we take a rain check, maybe?" he asks, considering the plane he'd made

"I'm afraid not," the guard says and his expression grows colder. "Get up."

Desmond sits still for a moment, just eying them. Then, shaking his head, he throws the plane at the nearest guard. As the guy lets out a confused yelp, Desmond sharply kicks out with both feet, kicking two of the guards off theirs as efficiently as he can before jumping up and launching himself at the remaining guards. One he manages to throw off balance with shoulder check but the last two aren't so much as affected – and immediately after, they're drawing weapons.

"You bastard, we'll kill you!"

"Yes, yes," Desmond agrees, and grabs the wrist of the nearest attacker, spinning him around and slamming his face first into the nearest wall. The guy falls down in clatter of metal, and then another is on him, lashing out with a sword which only misses by an inch.

Desmond grabs his knife, and throws himself into the melee. And it is really _melee_ in the tight alleyway, with no place to run and no cover to take. There are a couple of near misses and he nearly gets a pike to the face once – but he's not the only one disadvantaged in the tight space. And he, unlike his opponents, isn't clanking his weapons onto the nearby walls.

He takes the second guard out with a trip and by slamming the man's helmet-covered head onto the cobblestones until he figures it's better to just lay down. The third almost gets him with a sword before Desmond managed to lash him across the wrist and he drops the sword from listless fingers. The fourth man trips over one of his companions and slams onto the bench Desmond had been sitting on, knocking himself out. The last of the five guards hesitates and then runs at Desmond with a roar – he spins the man around and throws him too into a wall.

Then he's standing surrounded by five bodies in various stages of unconsciousness and abject humiliation, facing the question of whether to kill them or not. On one had, dead men don't report their attackers and so their attackers don't get put onto most-wanted-listings. On other hand…

Desmond doesn't _need_ to kill them. He could just walk away.

"I was just sitting there," Desmond says to the guys at his feet. "I wasn't even doing anything. You could've just left me alone, but no, of course not."

The most conscious man groans something at him and with a sigh Desmond crouches down and starts clearing out their pockets, emptying their purses. He had ran out of money after all –  and maybe this way he _could_ pay off the next set of guard.

"Thank you for your contributions to future attempts of bribery, I guess," Desmond mutters and then spots the plane he'd made. "Hey, it survived," he says, and picks the thing up. It hadn't even gotten trampled on – nice.

Ignoring the downed guards, Desmond makes to throw the paper plane down the alleyway, when he spots a white shadow crouched down on a wooden strut just above them.

"That was very well done," Ezio Auditore says to him, leaning his elbows to his bent knees while shadows hang over his face, hiding most of it from view. Under the hood, the man is smiling faintly. "You have some skills with that blade there."

Desmond stares at him, his mind drawing a blank.

Then he throws the paper plane at the man.

It makes a pretty graceful arch towards the assassin before it's nose is swinging down and it continues down the alley in smooth glide, coming to a halt at the bent of the alleyway, where it hits a wall and goes fluttering down. Ezio's head turns to follow him before looking back down on Desmond. Though unseen, Desmond can just _feel_ the arched brow aimed at his way.

"… thanks," Desmond says after a moment of nervous silence.

He wonders, briefly, if he should make a run for it. He's not sure why – Ezio isn't being exactly hostile, though it's… a bit unnerving to have Master Assassin just hanging in the air like that, staring down at him – how long had the man been there anyway?

In the end, though, running away from Ezio would probably be worse than hanging around. For one, he isn't sure he has any reason to run and if he does run it would only make it seem like he does have a reason to and for other… Ezio could probably catch him. And he has a throwing knifes, a crossbow and a _gun_ and even if Ezio couldn't catch him, one of the other three probably could.

So, Desmond stands his ground, a little nervous, until Ezio finally does something – swinging down to hang on the wooden pole before dropping down onto the alleyway, missing a Borgia soldier's head just by  a foot or so.

"You took down a wanted poster," Ezio comments. "One of mine."

"Well…" Desmond says slowly, staring at him in wonder. Ezio is shorter than him. He's – Desmond is taller than Ezio Auditore? Since _when?_ He'd always thought he and Ezio and Altaïr were all about the same height and build – and they're not even that. Ezio is wider around the shoulders and…

Right. The Animus. Of course.

Closer up he can see Ezio's eyes under the hood – they narrow just a little, taking in his face, tracing the scar across his lips. Desmond smothers the urge to shift his weight from foot to foot like schoolboy caught doing naughty things – for god's sake, sure, Ezio is impressive and frankly more than a bit intimidating, but Desmond is an Assassin too. And he knows all the stupid shit Ezio's gotten up to over the years – taking down a wanted poster just to make a paper plane is nowhere near as bad as some of Ezio's shenanigans. He has _nothing_ to be ashamed about.

"What is your name?" Ezio asks, his voice almost casual – his eyes are intent though and hard. "And have you, perchance, had any cause to visit the Vatican lately?"

What the… "What's it to you?" Desmond asks slowly, worriedly. Sure he'd made a bit of noise over there, but… it had already reached Ezio's ears, his little flight over the Vatican District? Shit, does the man know he came from the Vault? "I mean, yes, I did… _visit_ it briefly, but…"

Ezio's expression shifts a little – it's surprise. "You are from Florence?" he asks, astonished.

"I'm what?" Desmond asks, taken aback.

"Ah, a country man!" Ezio says. "It has been a while – it is not often you hear a Florentine accent in Rome! What's your name, my friend?"

Desmond opens his mouth and then closes it, confused. He has a Florentine accent? Well it makes sense, he learned to speak Italian from Ezio, but… he hadn't realised. He'd thought he'd speak Italian like foreigner, with a terrible foreign accent – not like a _native_. "My name, it's, uh… Miles," Desmond says and grimaces. Shit. He should've tried to come up with a name for himself. He can't go by Desmond, not with Ezio having heard it from Minerva, but…

"Miles… da Firenze?" Ezio asks, almost diplomatically. He pronounces it more like Mails, than Miles. "French?" he guesses.

"I guess," Desmond sighs and clears his throat. Miles the Florentian bastard of a French-somebody? Okay, sure, _why not._ The one thing he's _pretty_ sure isn't in his ancestry, _French_ , and now it's his backstory. Great. "And you are Ezio Auditore da Firenze." Good _god_ this is terrible.

"You have heard of me in Florence," Ezio says, sounding half pleased.

"… I just took your wanted poster down and made a plane out of it," Desmond shrugs, looking him over and glancing after the paper plane while Ezio makes a confused face at him. "Er," Desmond says, looking down at the guards at their feet. "I should probably get going – was there something you wanted?"

"Let me walk with you," Ezio says, something sharp coming to his smile as he steps closer, winds an arm around Desmond's shoulder and all but steers him away. "Tell me, what were you doing in the Vatican, Miles?"

Fuck, Desmond thinks. "Trying to get away?" he offers, trying to madly come up with an explanation that didn't include magical transportation to First Civ vault which, as far as anyone knew, couldn't even been opened without an Apple of Eden. "How do you even know I was there?" Desmond asks, trying to buy some time to think.

"You made quite an impression," Ezio said. "On some guards, on some priests, a beggar by the Tiber River, a doctor…" the Master Assassin looks at him from under the hood. "That wasn't a very clean get away you made."

"Apparently not," Desmond mutters. He'd changed his clothes and everything. Well, there's no point in denying it now – even if Ezio hadn't been hundred percent sure, Desmond has pretty given himself up by now. "So what are you going to do about it?"

"You tried to assassinate Pope Alexander," Ezio says. "Why?"

"I didn't – I tried to get _away_ from there. I didn't try to assassinate anyone," Desmond denies and looks at the man, trying to seem as earnest as possible – he _is_ earnest. Assassinating anyone had been the least thing in his mind back in the Vatican. "I just happened to… run into the man. No assassination attempts involved, I assure you."

"You got very close," Ezio comments, watching him. "If you weren't there for him, what were you there for?"

Desmond makes a face. If he doesn't come up with a good answer, there is a very real chance that Ezio will try to beat it out of him. That was how he dealt with interrogations in the Animus memories anyway. "It was – uh… unrelated information gathering," he says. And it had been too, in a way. In backwards sort of way. "Why are you so interested anyway? It had nothing to do with you."

Ezio looks at him. "A man in a white hood gets near enough to the Pope to almost stick a knife in him," he says.

Ah. "Right," Desmond says. "Sorry, I guess. It really had nothing to do with you, though. Or the Pope. It was all just a big coincidence." And maybe cosmic joke by Jupiter, who knows. "And I'm not wearing white anymore, so, shouldn't trouble you anymore, right?"

"Hmm," Ezio answers, considering. "What information _were_ you after in the Vatican, Miles?"

… shit. Desmond looks away, thinking wildly. What would've he been after, if the whole time travel thing hadn't happened; what would Miles da Firenze want from the Vatican? Shit, shit, _shit_ he really should've out more thought into coming up with an identity, something to support his hopeful future career in the birth of aviation or whatever the hell he was going to do…

"Documents," Desmond says and coughs. "I – heard rumours that they kept documents in the Vatican about, ah… sciences."

"Sciences?" Ezio asks with a frown.

"Heretical things," Desmond clarifies. "The things they – they burn. Which they didn't burn, apparently, and instead hid in a secret vault. Things like…" Desmond almost chokes as he realises he's stealing the plot of a _movie_. "Like how the world works, how the stars work. That… that sort of things. Things that don't work with how the church teaches."

Ezio stares at him for a long moment. "You broke into the district thinking that you'd find… heretical knowledge in the _Vatican_ ," he repeats slowly.

"It… seemed like the thing to do at time?" Desmond grimaces. Fuck, this isn't going to fly at all, is it? And once upon a time he'd been such a good liar too, whatever happened to that? Ah, yes, Animus, scrambled brains, right-o. God damn it.

Ezio shakes his head at him. "Heretical knowledge," he muses. "In a vault under the Vatican. Hm. Did you find your documents, Miles?"

"No," Desmond says, scratching at his neck – he feels a bit like he's choking on something. His own terrible lies maybe. "No, mostly I just found guards."

"So I've heard," Ezio muses. "A rash thing to do, to break into the seat of Borgia power just for some paper."

"Knowledge is important," Desmond mutters, shifting on his feet.

"It is also a hard thing to do," Ezio comments and looks him over, considering

Desmond shrugs. "Well… it was all useless in the end. I was lucky to get away with my life," he mutters.

"Yes – if it was luck," Ezio hums and they step out from the shadows of the alley and into sunlight. The Tiber River is ahead of them now, with piers below the level they're on and stairs leading down to them just to the left.  Ezio doesn't move to the stairs and instead steps up to the wall separating them from a good eight foot wall. "But I think it takes more than luck to break into the Vatican and escape with your life. It takes skill."

"Well," Desmond answers, glancing at him, uncertain. "Maybe. What of it?"

In answer, Ezio grabs his right hand, and turns it over so his inner wrist is up towards the sky – he's not rough about it, but his grip is very firm. As Desmond watches with dismay, Ezio triggers the hidden blade there, and it snaps out with a metallic shriek.

"… fuck," Desmond mutters.

Ezio tests the point of the blade with his gloved fingertip. "I thought I already knew all the Assassins of Florence," Ezio says, looking at him as he flicks the point. It doesn't even vibrate. "Who trained you?"

Desmond grimaces. You did, he thinks. You and Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad and Connor Kenway. You and a templar named Lucy Stillman who I killed, who hasn't even been born yet and won't be for centuries. "I, uh…" he hesitates and bows his head. "No one trained me."

"Right. And you got this from _no one_ as well," Ezio says pointedly, and flicks the blade again. "It is well made."

Desmond opens his mouth and then closes it. Then he quickly triggers the blade to slide back into it sheath before Ezio can investigate the thing further – and in so doing discover the fact that not only is it made of metal people can't even make yet, it's also not attached to a vambrace nor strapped down by belts and buckles. "Would you believe I built it?" he asks, wincing. Fuck, he's really fucked up now.

"You built it," Ezio repeats flatly.

"I, uh… there were – designs," Desmond says, trying to reach for _some_ sort of explanation. "Copies I think – I, uh, found them and…" he swallows. "It's a long story."

"I have _all day_ , my friend," Ezio promises dangerously, obviously not believing a word of it. "Please, do tell. What designs, _where_ did you find them?"

Fuck, he really should've just ran the moment he spotted Ezio, shouldn't he, he should've just ran as fast and far as he could and not look back. It might've gotten him a blade between his ribs, but it would've been preferable to this, Jesus Christ.

"I stole them from the Borgia," Desmond says quickly before he can think better of it. "There was stuff about – about the hidden blade and assassination techniques. That's where I learned how… um…" _Fucking hell_ he's bad at this. Shaun would _murder_ him for all of this if he knew.

Ezio's eyes narrow and then his expression turns inward and he looks away. "The Codex pages," he murmurs and then looks at Desmond. "You got access to the Codex pages? The Borgia have them? They took them from –" he stops and all but nails Desmond with his eyes. "Where are they now?" he demands to know.

Desmond shakes his head. Hell if he knows – as far as _anyone_ knows Altaïr's codex burned with Monteriggioni. "I only got some copies," he says apologetically, trying to not squirm. "And even they are gone, there was… I couldn't keep them," he swallows and clasps his hand over the hidden blade. "I know they had something to do with, well, _you_ , but… I didn't think…"

Ezio eyes him seriously, darkly, all but searching his face as if looking for clues. Probably finding them too. "You thought we all died," he surmises. "Is that what they say in Florence – that the Auditore family is dead?"

Desmond swallows and says nothing – he's build this house of cards high enough, he barely dares to _breathe_ now. One wrong word and it'll all come tumbling down around him.

Ezio looks away, bowing his head a little. "We are _not_ gone, not _yet_ ," he says darkly. "And neither is our Brotherhood. Come, Miles da Firenze – let me show you," he says then and clasps Desmond by the shoulder. "Let me show you how strong we still remain."

Desmond opens his mouth to argue and then closes it with a sigh. Even now, he's going where his ancestors lead him, huh? "Yeah, sure," he says meekly. "Lead the way."

Not like he has much of a choice, does he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will forever stand by tol Desmond vs. smol ancestors.


	6. Chapter 6

Assassins move to where they are needed.

For a while the main seat of power had been in Florence, in their many banks and banking guilds, in the Medici and their military and political prowess. Then the balance of power had shifted – violently and forcibly by blood and murder – towards Venice and it's trade routes and trade deals, to it's money and reputation, to it's freedoms and to its vices.

Now power rests in Rome, in the hands of the Borgia and the church and the Papal Forces, and so that is where the Assassin's are congregating as well. That is where Ezio will rebuild their order after the deaths of his family, the destruction of Monteriggioni, the stripping of _his_ power in Tuscany.

But they have only begun. The Tiber Island hideout is great, far greater than any Ezio had in Florence after the Palazzo Auditore had been taken and he'd never had a permanent residence in Venice at all, sleeping and staying in Antonio's hideout or Theodora's _convent_ more often than not. A home with rooms and halls and plenty of hearths to keep it all warm – a great shelter in the storms of Rome. But it is still empty.

"One day, this place will house dozens of assassins," Ezio swears as he shows Miles da Firenze around the vacant halls. "Here, I will collect us an arsenal of weaponry for our people to choose their favourites from. Here, I will build up a library of knowledge. Here…"

Miles follows him silently, looking around half in wonder and half in fear, biting his lip on his nervous babble from before. He's young, Ezio muses, perhaps twenty years, and handsome enough to have made Ezio jealous once upon a time. But there is something about him – the short shaven hair, the nearly bare face, the way he holds himself – that makes him seem… unassuming.

It's the same quality Beatrice had had, which had caught Ezio's eye. The capability with a blade, the obvious skill in fight – and from what Ezio had seen, Miles was very skilled indeed. That, paired with this demeanour of near humbleness… Miles da Florence is a tall man, handsome and very capable – and there's not a hint of strut in his step, no swagger, no smirks. Ezio likes that.

It's the complete opposite of how he'd been in Miles' age, but he thinks it serves better in an Assassin, than overconfidence born from his own obliviousness.

"Why do you have an art gallery?" Miles asks, and Ezio pauses to realise he'd been showing the young man into the said gallery. "If this is a den of Assassins… why art?"

"Why not art?" Ezio asks, looking up at him curiously. It's the first thing the young man has spoken since they entered.

"It's just… seems an odd thing for assassins."

Ezio chuckles at that. "I paint," he admits and Miles looks at him oddly. Ezio shrugs. "Self expression is vital to understanding and enjoying life," he says and steps into the gallery, looking around. It is still mostly empty – the only pieces of art he has so far are his own works – paintings of the Borgias. He has yet to accumulate the sort of superfluous funds to buy excess things.

It's a nostalgic thing now, art. Over many years he'd filled Auditore Villa in Monteriggioni with every piece of art in hopes of sparking any hint of life in his mother's eyes, of easing Claudia's heavily weighed heart. Neither worked, but the habit got ingrained in him. Now, to buy a new painting is a spark of hope that maybe it might make someone smile.

Ezio shakes his head and turns to Miles. "Everyone should have the chance to appreciate finer things in life. Assassins too," he says. Or perhaps, especially. His painting had begun in rage and vengeance – he only painted portraits of his targets. In the beginning it had been hard to not destroy the portraits as soon as he finished. Now…

Now it lets him better understand the people he hunts. Double edged sword, perhaps, to sympathise with one he seeks to murder, but one he thinks made him a better Assassin – and, maybe, a better person too. And, now, it is indeed a small pleasure, to be able to set the blades down for a moment and go for a brush instead. Their lives are by design so dark, so grim. Any scrap of pleasure and beauty is not just good for them – it is _required_ , Ezio thinks, just to keep them human and sane.

Miles looks at him and for a moment there is something terribly knowing in the young man's eyes, before he turns to examine the portraits. "You're very good," he comments, eying the portrait of Rodrigo Borgia. "It looks just like him."

"Vengeance is a powerful motivator," Ezio admits and then turns to lead the young man away from the gallery. "Come, there are still rooms to show you."

He takes the young man to the armoury next. He hasn't completed all of the sets of armours yet – funds are still an issue – but it turns out he needn't feel any shame for the slow going work. Miles has no attention to give them – not after he spots the display in the middle of the room, and on it, a model of Leonardo's machine.

"That's – " Miles says and then goes over, nearly reverent look on his face as he looks over the machine. It's the flying machine – so far the only one Ezio knows for certain he destroyed in full. Leonardo had given him the model to know what he was looking for – now it stands in place of honour, another target Ezio had assassinated.

"A creation of a friend of mine," Ezio says, coming closer, watching the young man with interest. Miles had claimed to have built the hidden blade he owns… "You know something of engineering?"

"Something," Miles says and bends down to examine the underside of the machine. "It must've been so heavy," he murmurs and reaches over to run a finger across the support struts. "What was it made of? And the wings, what is this – cotton?"

"Type of very thin leather I think," Ezio says and frowns at him. "It was like parchment, thinner even. You know it was built in full size?"

Miles glances up guiltily and then looks down. "Ah, there were – rumours," he mutters and crouches down on the floor to look at the machine model more closely. "Leather, that much wood – some metal too," he murmurs. "It really must've been too heavy. You couldn't even _glide_ far with it, could you? This thing would plummet like a _rock_. "

Ezio folds his arms, watching the young man carefully. "You make it sound like you could have built a better one," he says flatly.

Miles winces and quickly pushes away from the machine. "Sorry, I – got carried away," he murmurs and looks around, coughing. "There are others?"

"There will be others," Ezio says, glancing at the other empty display cases. Leonardo, much to his eternal grief, is a busy man. "Come, there's more to show you –"

"What's this then?"

Machiavelli is standing by the door, watching them. He arches as single brow at the sight of Miles – taking in the young man's short hair, the scar across his lips – and then arching the other brow as well. "Ezio," he says. "A word."

"Excuse me for a moment," Ezio says, glancing at Miles who nods nervously, his eyes drifting back to the flying machine.

"Yeah, I'll just… wait here," the young man says and turns to examine the model again.

Ezio leaves the room with Machiavelli, pushing his hood back as they step to the hall. "I assume that would be our assassin friend?" Machiavelli says. "You found him in good time, it seems."

"Luck," Ezio admits, looking to the armoury door. "I heard sounds of fighting, shouting – and found him taking down five Borgia guards with only a knife. It was very expertly done too."

"And then you brought him here," Machiavelli says, his tone somewhat flat. "What do you know about him?"

"He's a rotten liar," Ezio admits, chuckling a little. "But I caught him at a bad time so I won't hold it against him. His name is Miles da Firenze – he's from Florence."

"Hmmm. That name. French?" Machiavelli asks, meaning the name.

"I think so," Ezio agrees. "Though he didn't sound too certain about it, so I doubt he knows much about his own parentage. Not that we will hold it against him."

Machiavelli casts him a look, arching a single brow. "And why did Miles da Firenze seek to assassinate Pope Alexander?" he asks, clasping his hands behind his back.

"According to him, he didn't – he aimed to break into some vault of hidden heretical knowledge under Vatican," Ezio says and gives him a meaningful look. "And gain knowledge about the earth and stars. According to him he did not find it, only the guards, but it is curious, no?"

Machiavelli says nothing for a moment. "He's lying."

"Obviously, but it's a curious lie to spin," Ezio says and folds his arms. "The fight I witnessed wasn't fabricated," he adds then. "None could've known I would witness it – I was in that part of the city only by fluke. And Miles killed guards in his escape, didn't he? He is no friend of the Borgia."

"But he is something," Machiavelli says and looks at him. "And you brought him _here_ , to our home. With every cause of suspicion that this boy might've been trained to imitate _you_."

Ezio waves a dismissive hand. "There are… similarities," he admits. If Miles wore a hood and grew a fuller beard and if his beard grew as dark as Ezio's… they might very easily be mistaken for each other. And there is the scar too.

Ezio traces the scar across his own lips, wondering. The scar across Miles' lips is darker than Ezio's, it had been cut deeper. Ezio's scar had been a mere scrape when he got it, it had only scarred thanks to that son of a whore doctor who had given him medicine that made it _worse_. With Miles however it looks like whatever caused the injury cut his lips right through, splitting the flesh in two. His scar is far more noticeable.

And yes, it is in the exact same place as Ezio's scar. It is uncanny how similar it is. It is as if by design.

"He is much taller than I am," Ezio comments, still tracing the scar in thought.

"When you witness the said man committing heinous crimes, do you really question his height at the time?" Machiavelli wonders and looks at him plainly. "And his height only makes him more noticeable, you realise. You are not stupid, Ezio – _why_ did you bring him here?"

Ezio lowers his hand. "When I look at him with my gift, he glows blue," he admits. "Blue is the colour of allies."

Machiavelli frowns. "And red is enemies," he recalls slowly.

"Enemies, traitors and those that would wish me ill, yes. I can see people's intentions even when they are in disguise, even when they do not know _who I am_ I can tell how they would perceive me – and Miles glows blue," Ezio says firmly. In fact, Miles glows blue enough that he'd _lit up_ that alley way.

Machiavelli bows his chin a little. "Has your gift ever failed you?"

"Not once," Ezio says firmly.

"One can be a traitor without wishing you ill," Machiavelli warns.

"My gift is not a subtle one," Ezio shakes his head. "And if there was a question of intent, he would appear golden – he does not. He glows blue and he…" he trails off, trying to word the feeling he gets from the young man.

Miles felt a little familiar. Looking at him was much like looking at mirror, a distorted mirror perhaps, but one nonetheless. He also seems a bit like puppy of a blood hound, growing too fast to keep up with his own body, stumbling over his own feet. He is skilled and possibly lethal, no question about that – but at the same time, he seems like worse novice than Beatrice.

And something about taking down a wanted poster to make a toy out of it is just a little charming.

"I think he is an Assassin," Ezio admits finally. "Or if not quite that, then he is at least a great admirer of our Brotherhood. If nothing else, he bears watching, don't you think? And where better to keep an eye on him than here?"

Machiavelli frowns. "It's a risk," he says warningly.

"I'll take responsibility of him," Ezio promises. "And if he means us ill, I'll put a blade in him myself."

"You better," Machiavelli says firmly and turns to face him. "He knows the location of this hideout now and if he works for the Borgia…"

"I won't let him out of my sight," Ezio promises. "But honestly, Machiavelli, I do not believe Miles da Firenze is an enemy."

"I hope you're right," the Mentor of the Brotherhood says. "Because if you aren't and if the Borgia now produce imitations to replace us… It paints a very grim picture."

Ezio nods his head. It's a grim thought. Their Brotherhood has been reduced so badly in numbers too, of late. If somehow Borgia managed to replace even _few_ of them… or, as it might be in Miles' case, if they might insinuate their men into the Brotherhood…

"I will make sure it will not come to it," Ezio promises. "You have my word."

Machiavelli sighs and then nods. "Very well," he says and then frowns. "He is from Florence?" he asks then.

"I swear, he sounds just like home," Ezio chuckles.

The look Machiavelli gives him is pointed and blatant. "By which you mean he sounds exactly like _you_?" Machiavelli sighs and shakes his head. "Have you asked him about the clothes yet?"

"Not yet. You interrupted us," Ezio says.

"In that case, I will join you. I want to hear what he has to say."

Ezio nods. "By all means," he says and motions the man to go ahead.

Miles is still examining the flying machine, drumming the wooden display table as he goes around the thing. He looks anxious.

"Miles," Ezio says. "This is Niccolò di Bernando dei Machiavelli - the Mentor of our Brotherhood."

Miles nods, distracted.

"Is something the matter?" Machiavelli asks coolly. "Miles da Firenze, was it?"

"No – yes, that's… me," Miles says and leans away from the flying machine. "I'm sorry - nothing's wrong."

He looks at the model of the flying machine with fervent sort of despair though, which makes Ezio and Machiavelli exchange confused looks. Had the young man heard them?

Machiavelli seems to think so, because his eyes narrow. "There is something we'd like to show you, Miles da Firenze," he says, his voice sharp, and motions to the doorway. "If you would come this way, please."

Miles leaves the flying machine model with obvious reluctance and follows Machiavelli, Ezio glancing between him and the model thoughtfully. Then Machiavelli leads them to his office – where they have Miles' discarded pieces of attire, what few they'd been able to find.

It's obvious Miles recognizes them too – he stops at the door way to stare at them.

Unlike the footwear, the odd hose and even odder doublet had almost been burned – Miles had tried to feed them to a torch, judging by the damage done to them. It hadn't been enough though – scraps of dark blue, thick cloth survived, as did scraps of odd white fabric of his even odder doublet. And, more meaningfully, something _metallic_ in both hadn't been burned at all.

"Can you tell us what _this_ is?" Machiavelli asks, while taking the odd chain of burnt cloth and metal off the tray where he'd laid down the scraps. It looks distantly like a locker chain – except for the fact that it had somehow been attached to the clothing

Miles stares at the thing, his expression a little lost. Then he looks up at Machiavelli, who arches his brows again. "These are your clothes, aren't they?" the Mentor asks and rests a hand on the strange foot wear sitting on the tray. "I found the scraps on an alleyway under some leaves and a beggar spotted you throwing these shoes into the Tiber River. Stuffed full of rocks, I understand. You tried to get rid of them – but you did not do a good job of it."

Ezio folds his arms, feeling a little sorry for the young man, who looks at the scraps of clothing he tried to get rid of in open dismay. Then Miles sighs and shakes his head. "Not a clean get away at all," he mutters, running a hand over his face.

"What is this?" Machiavelli demands, jostling the chain again.

"It's a zipper," Miles answers against his palm and then lowers his hand. "A zip fly, a fastener – it's how you open and fasten clothing. Kind of like buttons, but handier."

"I've never heard of such a thing," Machiavelli says flatly, even as he considers the strange chain.

Miles just sighs and shakes his head.

"Where do these clothes come from?" Ezio asks, watching the young man's expression carefully. "They are yours, are they not? Who made them?"

Miles opens his mouth and then closes it again, shaking his head again. "I don't know who made them. I bought them ages ago, can't even remember where," he says and shrugs. "I didn't really ask about the names of the people who made them."

"You're lying," Machiavelli says flatly. "These clothes – these _shoes_ – were made with remarkable artistry. Anyone capable of such creations would be well known, the stitching is too perfect. And if they come from foreign land, one would know where. Where do these clothes come from?"

Miles looks at him – and Ezio can just see him considering something. "I don't know," he says then and looks away. "I stole them, alright? I didn't exactly stop to ask questions."

Machiavelli narrows his eyes and Ezio looks at Miles, letting the _gift_ leak into his vision. Miles still glows blue – not a hint of red in the strange aura of intent that every person has under Ezio's gaze. "Where did you get them from, then?" Ezio asks, watching the blue aura radiate from within Miles.

"… the Vatican?" Miles offers and shrugs.

The problem is that he _sounds_ like he's lying but he doesn't feel like it, he doesn't look like it. There's a seed truth to his words. He had gotten them from the Vatican – but if they had been stolen or _given_ to him is hard to say. It is an odd thing, though – if Miles works for the Borgia, why would they give him such clothes only for him to try and destroy? They only mark him stranger.

There is something unearthly about the clothing, something _not quite right_. The material and artistry of the footwear is little too strange to _belong_ here.

Ezio looks to Machiavelli, meaningful. The Borgia have the Apple of Eden again, after all. The Apple, and if they have managed to get the access to the Staff again… They could've opened the Vault. The Goddess Minerva had made it seem like its purpose had been served when she'd delivered her message through Ezio to the phantom, _Desmond_ , but…

There were other ways of utilising the Apple. Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad had certainly figured out a way, and so had Ezio, the little while he had possessed it. There is knowledge of the ancients in the accursed things – and knowledge of the future as well.

"Miles," Ezio says slowly, turning to the young man. "Did you get into the  _Vault_?"

Miles looks at him, pressing his lips tightly together. Then he looks away and firmly says nothing.

His silence is as good as admission of guilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story isn't going anywhere near where I meant it to go :|


	7. Chapter 7

He'd gotten complacent after Abstergo. Not just complacent but lazy, plain and simple.

Desmond isn't in denial about his own personality – he is… bit of a doormat at the best of times. Always had been and always probably would be. One could lay the blame at the feet of William Miles and the so called training regime they'd all gone through back at the Farm – of which Desmond had in his own opinion got then the worst of – but it's probably not just that. It's just what he is like. He's just not a particularly strong personality.

It's part of the reason why he had ran away from the Farm. Not because he'd seen what he would become if he kept forever just going along with everything thrown his way and doing everything they wanted, but because… because he could see the steps his father was taking to _change_ him.

William Miles had not approved a meek son. Assassins, in his opinion, weren't compliant, didn't roll over, didn't _yield_. They were strong, they took charge, they took the bull by the horns and they got the job done, and all the rest of that macho bullshit. Proper Assassins, in William Miles' world, were driven and ambitious and _determined_. They were, in word, not much like Desmond Miles – but oh, William had a cure for that.

It was after that _cure_ had split Desmond's lip and nearly taken a tooth out that Desmond ran away with the intention of staying _himself_ and so what if it meant that he remained weak willed and complacent and whatever else his father thought he was? At least he'd still be _himself_ and not this atypical Assassin perfectly moulded to the boots of those that came before, you know, the _proper_ Assassins.

Jesus Christ, thinking back to it all _after Abstergo_ is ludicrous. Talk about fucking irony.

Before Abstergo, though, Desmond had learned. He hadn't grown the tough skin his father had been hoping for, hadn't grown thorns and edges and learned to _fight_ for himself. Instead he learned to be calm, to remain collected – to take things as they came and not let them affect him too badly. He'd never been a particularly angry person, but he'd learned to… be even less so.

Zen, a customer at Bad Weather once called it. He learned to be Zen about things – which in William Miles speak probably meant he learned to Roll Over But With Style or something. But it was nice. It's what got him his job at Bad Weather, serving drinks to New York City's finest – his attitude of not letting bullshit get to him. Even when he had a pissed off, drunk off their ass and probably high customer screaming at his face about whether he knew who they were, no one had any doubts about whether Desmond Miles could keep his goddamn chill.  He might not always know what he was supposed to do, but he could at least stay calm enough to _think_ about it.

Now what the hell happened to that?

Abstergo. Lucy. The Assassins. Months of Animus. He relearned the act of following, being led by the nose. And being angry about it, too. He relearned helplessness, being forced to do things against his will – being changed without his say so. First Vidic and Lucy, then Rebecca and Shaun and William, until at the end of it he wasn't sure of anything. From Italy all the way back to New York and to the Grand Temple and to his death and time travel. Was it really Desmond Miles who even touched that damn Eye?

Now after months… there's no one leading him anywhere now. Minerva and Jupiter had let him loose, never telling him what to do or who to be. Just do whatever he wanted to, and change history while doing it.

Obviously he doesn't know what to do with that anymore.

* * *

 

Desmond cradles his head in his hands, hanging it over his bent knees. Shit.

He's sitting in Machiavelli's office and it's a small wonder they haven't cuffed him up yet. Well, there is Ezio is standing over him with his arms folded and Machiavelli is standing by the desk, so it's not like Desmond could make it far even if he tried to make a run for it now. Outrunning one Master Assassin indoors would be hard enough, but two? Not a chance.

Behind Machiavelli on the desk sits Desmond's clothes on metal trays – or what remains of his clothes anyway. Shreds of his hoodie, jeans, his _sneakers_ , for god's sake. He should've burned them, burned all of his clothes and _then_ thrown what was left into the river. And the hidden blade along with them – though with his luck someone would've dived them back up again anyway.

Disappearing in the _future_ had been easier than this and he'd had had the entire Assassin Brotherhood after him back then – them and all their surveillance. Here it's just Ezio and Machiavelli and in two days Desmond is caught, just like that. And they don't even know what they have.

"So you found these in Vatican," Machiavelli says finally into the silence, speaking of the clothes. "And decided to wear them?"

"Seemed like a good idea at the time," Desmond answers more to his palms than at the Mentor, cursing himself in his head. Shit, shit, _shit_.

"And then, once you were clear, you decided to _destroy_ them. As opposed to studying them, or learning from them," Machiavelli continues. "Or even selling them."

Desmond sighs heavily and looks up from his knees. "Well, I was bit of a wanted man," he says. "They made me recognizable."

"You don't say," Ezio says, looking down at him from under the shadows of his hood, over his folded arms. "You could have hid them."

Desmond doesn't answer. He's fucking himself over worse and worse with each word he speaks – at this point vow of silence might be the only thing that might save him. Might end up him imprisoned somewhere in the bowels of the hideout, but still.

Jesus, he hasn't fucked up this bad since – no, actually, even buying the motorcycle hadn't been this bad. It had been bad but this is just ridiculously stupid. This is up there with running away from the Farm. And agreeing with Juno. And letting himself be transported five hundred fucking years into the past for fuck's sake –

"Miles," Ezio says and Desmond looks up. "Just tell us the truth. What happened?"

Desmond looks at him desperately. So long he's spend in Ezio's head and body and _life_ and he doesn't have any idea how to handle him from the outside. He's so familiar but at the same time… this isn't the Animus. Ezio isn't stuck on pre-made tracks here – the memory won't be re-playable after Desmond screws it up. This is it, there is only this one time Desmond has to try, and he has no idea what Ezio will do.

It's _terrifying_. Of course he's always known, Ezio is an Assassin and a damn good one too, but it's more real now. He kills people. He might end up killing _Desmond_ too.

Ezio wouldn't, though. He lives by the Creed, always had and Desmond is innocent. Well, he's not hostile anyway, so… Ezio wouldn't just kill him. Right?

The Master Assassin and future Mentor of the Brotherhood is staring at him expectantly now and Desmond looks down and away from him.

Would it be so bad to tell him? Would he even believe it? It's not like Desmond is here to preserve the past as it was, no, he's here to do the opposite. There are no rules to this, no limitations – he could tell anyone _everything_ , really, nothing would stop him. Telling Ezio – and Machiavelli – that he's from the future…

Time travel isn't even a fictional concept in these times, is it?

Desmond looks down. "I don't know how to explain it," he answers finally.

"How about you start from the beginning," Machiavelli says coolly and sets Desmond's sneaker down. "And we'll go from there."

Well in the beginning Eve started a rebellion in Eden…

Desmond shakes his head. What lies has he spun by now, what does he have to work with? He's Miles da Firenze, he knows about Assassins, about the Auditore, for some reason decided to steal documents from the Borgia and succeeded, he fashioned the hidden blade – that's going to come back to bite him on the ass… He broke into Vatican in search of hidden knowledge.

Well, the truth kind of works to his advantage here – it's not like they'd ever expect time travel. They are expecting something, though, and it has to be good enough to explain this. Something big – something that would send Miles da Firenze travelling to Rome and breaking into Vatican. What started in Florence…?

The Pazzi conspiracy, that was fun. The Auditore executions and Ezio's whole career as one of if not _the_ most successful Assassin to have ever lived. Then there was Savonarola, but that doesn't help much, does it? What else is there…? Miles da Firenze is a bastard and he has interest in Assassins, some knowledge about them, too much to be brushed under the rug…

Why would Miles da Firenze the bastard travel to Rome and break into Vatican?

Vengeance, he thinks, is a powerful motivator.

"I wanted to get back at them," he murmurs, the lie forming slowly in his head. "The Borgia took something from me and I wanted to get back at them."

"What did they take?" Ezio asks.

Desmond glances up. "Everything," he says.

It's nice and simple. Revenge plot is the oldest one in the book, right after romance. It resonates – good for building lies on, according to William Miles School of Faking It. And in a way Desmond's lie is true enough to count, kind of, in a roundabout way. The Templars had taken everything from him – Templars and Juno. In their machinations, he'd lost his life, his world, his timeline, everything.

"So you broke into Vatican, to get revenge?" Machiavelli asks.

"I heard they had powers, they had secrets, knowledge, that they were keeping from people," Desmond says with a shrug. All true, which makes for good lie. "I wanted to break it all open. Change the world. I don't know," he sighs. "I wasn't really thinking." And hell knows he hadn't been. Go back in time Desmond, save the world. Piece of cake.

Machiavelli hums, considering him coolly. "What happened in Vatican? How did you come across these?" he motions at the remains of the clothes."

Desmond looks at them and shakes his head. "They were just there – I just helped myself to them," he says. "I don't know what they are. And then there was the chase and – I panicked. I knew people were still following me, looking for me, so, I got rid of them."

Ezio is frowning at him now and Desmond looks down, avoiding his eyes. "Or I tried to anyway. Didn't do a very good job, turns out."

"No, you did not," Machiavelli says and takes one of the sneakers again, considering it. "So the Borgia made these," he muses. "Why? They don't seem particularly useful. They're not protective, nor armoured in anyway…"

"Might be that they didn't," Ezio says, still watching Desmond. "Might be something they confiscated – or had brought from abroad. Who can tell. Miles," he says then and Desmond swallows. "What else did you see in there?"

"What do you mean?"

"Did you get under the Sistine Chapel?"

Did he get into Minerva's Vault? Yes, actually – he'd woken up in Minerva's Vault though, smack in the middle of that circular hall. Then he'd gotten out of there as fast as he could before he could accidentally trigger the place or something. Trying to explain how he got that far though…

"No, just under St. Peter's Basilica," Desmond says, thinking back to those tunnels and halls. Getting there was easier – anyone could do it with proper lock picks and knowledge about the tunnel entrance. Ezio himself had broken in there – or would break in, eventually. "That's where I found the clothes."

Machiavelli and Ezio consider that for a moment, and Desmond isn't sure they believe him. They probably don't – hell, he doesn't believe himself at this point. He's spun so many bad lies at this point that neither of these two is ever going to trust him again. Great.

Why couldn't Jupiter send him to the Coliseum vault? Or just have him wake up in Pompeii – or actually… are the Pompeii ruins even uncovered yet? Yeah that probably would've been bad, waking up under several feet of dirt. And Coliseum vault had Juno in it.

"So, it was all a coincidence?" Machiavelli asks finally, sounding suspicious. "You have a _hidden blade_ , don't you, Miles da Firenze? An Assassin's weapon. How did you get it?"

"I made it," Desmond answers, because it's not like he can take it back anymore.

"Really," Machiavelli says flatly. "Show it to me."

Shit.

Desmond hesitates over his right arm and then triggers the blade, trying to keep the sheath hidden under his sleeve. No joy there, though – the moment the blade shrieks out of the ejector, Machiavelli is there, forcibly pushing the rough sleeve of his stolen shirt back to reveal the sheath – and the straps it's been bound with.

Though Desmond had used an antique hidden blade for a time, courtesy of Lucy who had gotten it who-even-knows-from-where, William had gotten him a new one, a proper one, a _modern one_. The hidden blades of future were a bit more streamlined than the more artistic historical ones. There are no adornments on Desmond's blade, no effects – just a smooth flat ejector with slightly rounded edges and no protruding shapes, designed so that it wouldn't show through clothing, wouldn't pinch the fabric.

It's also bound to his arm by strips of Velcro, another future wonder. Belts were so 16th century.

Machiavelli and Ezio both stare at the hidden blade oddly. Desmond is just glad he didn't go for the _undetectable_ hidden blades his Dad had suggested – this would be even weirder if the whole thing was made of ceramic. At least carbon steel _looks_ like metal you might be able to get in this time.

"Hm," Machiavelli says. "It's not one of ours then."

Ezio's eyes snap to him. "You thought –"

"I suspected that it might be Mario's," Machiavelli says and releases Desmond's wrist. Desmond pulls his sleeve down quickly before they can take another look and notice the straps holding the thing to his arm aren't normal. "You made it yourself? How?"

"I stole some designs from the Borgia, a while back," Desmond lies and adjusts his sleeve carefully. "I just made what was in them."

"The Codex pages from the villa," Ezio says and shakes his head, looking at Desmond. "Rebuilding what was in them is no small task."

Desmond shrugs, awkward. He actually could make a hidden blade once. They were all taught how to back in the Farm – it was part of their history lessons, bit of a rite of passage, to make a mock up version from wood. His hadn't been the best ever made, maybe, but it had been functional. It's one of his better memories from the Farm, too, running around with the other kids with their toy blades, pretending to be killers.

Jesus their childhood was fucked up.

"What happens now?" Desmond asks, gripping his wrist nervously. "What are you going to do with me?"

Ezio folds his arms across his chest, looking down at him. Then he looks to Machiavelli and arches his eyebrows. "Well, Mentor?" he asks. "Are your suspicions satisfied?"

"No," Machiavelli mutters and looks at Desmond. "How did you get that scar?"

Automatically Desmond licks at the split lip. "My dad – it was a knife," he says. "Happened years ago, doesn't really matter."

Machiavelli's expression doesn't change, though Ezio frowns a little, casting a meaningful look at Machiavelli. Finally, the Mentor sighs. "Fine," he says and waves a hand at Ezio. "Fine. He's your responsibility, Ezio. In _all things_. And on your head be it, if it turns out badly."

"Thank you," Ezio says, rather pointed, and turns to Desmond. "Come with me."

Desmond almost jumps to his feet.

"Miles da Firenze," Machiavelli says before they can leave. "Do you think you could draw a map of the tunnels you saw under the St. Peter's Basilica, and how you got in there?"

"Uh, yeah, maybe?" Desmond offers. He'd ran them something like half a dozen times trying to get full synchronisation of Ezio's memory there – he had _nightmares_ about the place. "I can try, I guess."

"Do so," Machiavelli says and turns to examine the clothes from future again.

"Come," Ezio says, taking Desmond by the elbow. "There are still rooms to show you around the place."

Desmond shakes his head and turns to follow him. The door closes behind them, leaving Machiavelli alone in his office and Desmond lets out a small sigh. Machiavelli had always come across as bit of a paranoid hard-ass, but _damn_. He's glad to be out of the man's sight for a bit.

Ezio leads him back to the hall and then down the stairs to the meeting hall, when the Assassin initiation rites were held, when they were held. "Machiavelli has a difficult personality at times but he only means the best for our Brotherhood," Ezio says. "You don't need to worry about him."

"I'm not," Desmond says and shakes his head. "I just – I don't know what you want from me. Why am I here?"

"I thought it was obvious," Ezio says and gives him a look. "I'm looking to recruit you to our Brotherhood, Miles da Firenze."

Yeah, Desmond had thought so. He shakes his head slightly and Ezio ignores it, motioning down the hall. "Here is where we will meet for important matters, for ceremonies. We haven't many of them, but what we have matters," Ezio says and walks forward, towards the end of the hall where on a pedestal waits the brazier where the tongs are heated for the branding – right now, its stone cold. "You know our Creed, Miles?"

Desmond stares at the cold brazier. "Yeah," he agrees.

He'd never done it, himself. In the future they didn't brand their members or chop their fingers off – all easily identifiable markings were forbidden in the future Brotherhood, it made Templars' job of hunting them down too easy in time of security cameras and other recording devices. But they had their ceremonies too and the letter of the Creed had never changed… only its spirit.

"Laa shay'a waqi'un moutlaq bale kouloun moumkine," Ezio says quietly – and Desmond winces. The Master Assassin glances at his way. "What?"

That pronunciation was _terrible_ , Desmond thinks. "Nothing," he says quickly. "Just surprised – what is it?"

"It is Arabic for our Creed," Ezio says. "Nothing is true, everything is permitted."

"Right," Desmond says and carefully keeps his face expressionless. The wording is wrong actually – what Ezio very badly tried to say actually means _Nothing is an absolute reality, all is permitted_ … but he supposes the spirit is there.

"Do you know what it means?" Ezio asks, watching him carefully.

Desmond bows his head a little. If he answers – if he joins the Brotherhood, and stays under Ezio's and Machiavelli's watchful gazes… could he do what he needs to do in the past? Assassin's work in the shadows, after all – their work is hidden. And Ezio has a history of destroying technology. It was for perfectly justifiable reason, and Leonardo da Vinci had asked him to do it out of fear for humanity, but…

Desmond is looking to change the future. That would, pretty much inevitably, make the future _worse_ at least for a while. For manned flight there are just too many military applications, and there are some big wars in Earth's future. That's just what humans do, they invent things and then they invent ways to use those things to kill each other. But they learn too, eventually. Nuclear arms race became a cold war became MAD became eventual Treaty on the Non-Proliferation of Nuclear Weaponry. It took them decades but they got there eventually – they learned better.

But that's not what the Assassin's would see. They would see a manned aircraft as weapon in hands of Templars and all the war lords of the world – they would see it as a tool of conquering others.  If Desmond now becomes an Assassin and then tries to push aviation at the world… would the Assassin Brotherhood _let him_? Considering how easily Ezio agreed to destroying the frankly mind-blowingly advanced weapons Leonardo da Vinci had created… Desmond gets the feeling Assassins aren't really looking to changing the world – just preserving it.

There are other applications for Leonardo's technology than war – but they were never given any thought because they were _too dangerous_. In hindsight it just seems a little hypocritical, really.

"Miles?" Ezio asks, looking at him.

Desmond looks up. "I don't want to be an Assassin," he says. "I'm sorry."

Ezio says nothing for a moment, watching him. "From what you told us, I assumed you wanted to get back at the Borgia," he says. "That you wanted to make things right. That you understood that what they are doing is wrong and that someone needs to stop them. Was I wrong?"

"… No," Desmond sighs. "No, you're not wrong."

"You broke into the Vatican to get even," Ezio says. "You failed. Now you want to give up?"

Desmond blows out a breath. "It's not that – it's –" he sighs. "Work in the shadow to protect the light. That's how it goes, right?" he asks. "I don't want to work in the shadows. I want to make things and put them in that light and I want the world to see them. I can't do that as an Assassin, can I?"

Ezio's eyebrows arch. "To be an Assassin doesn't mean to disappear from the world," he says slowly. "We are not ghosts in this life – many of us work outside the Brotherhood."

"As thieves and prostitutes and mercenaries," Desmond says plainly. "If it's not the shadow then it's the shade."

"Right now, yes, we're diminished to the point where we must hide. But my father was a banker," Ezio says. "And one of the more influential and well known men in Florence. You can't say that he remained in shadow."

Desmond frowns at that. He… hadn't thought of that. It was true, though, wasn't it? The Auditore had been an important and well known _noble_ family before their downfall.

Ezio hums and turns to look at the banners on the walls, the symbols of the Brotherhood. "We've been driven into the shadows not by our choice," he admits. "Our numbers are diminished and we're weakened. We can't afford publicity, not when it will get us hunted down and killed. But one day the Templar threat will be dealt with and things will change. Then… we might have our place in the light again."

He sounds so wistful, like he doesn't really believe it. Probably doesn't, not anymore – Ezio had gotten so _jaded_ the older he got, the world wearing down the bright nobleman of Florence down to a weary old man.

The Templar threat will never be dealt with, Desmond thinks dismally and looks away. They have too many advantages over the Assassin Brotherhood, main one being ideology. Just by how the Templars function they would always end up gaining power and influence – because that is what they want, what they work towards. Assassins in the mean while want none of those things – and if they do, they're not Assassins.

The Templars would never be gone.

But the Borgia would be.

Ezio looks at him from behind the edge of his hood. "I saw you fight," he says. "You have great skill. With little bit of more training, you would make a great Assassin, Miles da Firenze. But if you'd rather decline, I understand."

Desmond shakes his head and looks away, thinking. What would happen if he walked out of here? He still doesn't know how to _start_ with the whole changing the future thing. He doesn't know where to go, what to do – how do you introduce new ideas and new inventions to a world that still thinks the sun and stars revolve around the Earth? And with the Templars in charge of Rome…

If Desmond tries to preach the word of aviation now, he'd get himself crucified, probably literally. But once the Borgia regime would be brought down, things would change. And through Ezio… he might meet Leonardo da Vinci.

"If I join you and then one day in the future decide I would rather do something else," Desmond says thoughtfully and looks to Ezio. "Would you allow it?"

"So as long as you still adhere to the three tenets of the Creed, yes," Ezio says firmly. "Do you know them?"

Desmond nods slowly. "First, stay your blade from the blood of the innocent," he recites quietly. "Second, hide plain in sight. Third… never compromise the Brotherhood."

Ezio's eyes narrow a little and he turns to face Desmond fully. "You're well informed," he says.

Desmond shrugs. "I read," he says. "I can't do what I want to with the Borgia in control of Rome. No one can," he says. "I'd be willing to help you in taking them down. But after…"

"After comes _after_ ," Ezio says and steps closer, holding out a hand. "Liberation of Rome has begun. Will you join me?"

It's not going to be as simple as that, he knows – he'd made himself too suspicious with his bad lies. Machiavelli definitely isn't going to trust him anytime soon, and whatever Ezio thinks, he's probably not going to trust Desmond fully either. But...

Desmond takes Ezio's hand.

It's a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 7 chapters in and still no Leonardo. Soon, tho. Soon. Eventually. I hope.


	8. Chapter 8

"This way, Maestro."

Leonardo coughs lightly into his hand and follows the young assassin novice towards the ladder she is pointing. It's been a long trek through the sewers – something he has been aware of, and even studied a while but only in paper. He'd wanted a chance to see the sewers of Rome in person, but there hadn't been time, there was never any time these days – and even now, that he finally has the chance, he can't stop to examine. There is still too much to do.

The young assassin waits for Leonardo to take the ladder and he nods to her, "Thank you," he says, casting a glance down the sewer. They are no longer in use, of course, large portions of them having fallen into disrepair with people utterly unaware of them under their feet. But he can still tell, just as much of them still remains intact and if they could be repaired, Rome would have a system of latrines and water management above any others…

If they could be repaired. They could be, but they wouldn't be.

Sighing, Leonardo turns and takes to the ladder.

"Just push the latch up, Maestro," the young assassin says under him as she too takes to the ladder. "It should be open."

That seems a little reckless of the Brotherhood, to leave their entrance open like this – but Leonardo supposes they don't really have to fear assault from under ground. The tunnels under Rome are still, as far as he knows, unknown to the Borgia – and it would remain that way if he had anything to say.

Air is better up at the hall where the ladder leads and Leonardo takes a deep, grateful breath as he straightens up. Beatrice hops out of the tunnel after him and closes it gently before nodding to him. "I do not know if Ser Ezio is here," she admits. "But Mentor Machiavelli will most likely be here. I will go see."

"Thank you, I would appreciate it," Leonardo says with a sigh and follows the quicker assassin sown the corridor and left to the main hall of the Brotherhood, looking around. It's still very empty, this place, with not much in way of signs of it having been lived in. It's still early days in Ezio's plans for the Brotherhood.

Leonardo takes a seat by the table in the corner, sighing and checking his hands to see they're clean before brushing his fingers over his eyes. Lord above, he's tired. It's been good week since he had a full night's sleep and longer since he managed to slip away from the many, many people watching him. Being here now is terribly risky – but he cannot hold it off any longer.

They're almost finished with the project and his efforts to stall its launch had failed. They figured it out – soon, they'd be pronounced ready and shipped across battlefields and the Borgia power would grow, by his hand, by his inventions.

"Leonardo!"

It's like a physical blow, the word, spoken in that voice. While the young Beatrice hurriedly bows out of the hideout, heading outside, Ezio hurries over from a hallway and Leonardo stands up just in time to receive his brief embrace. "It has been weeks – how are you my friend?"

"I have been kept busy," Leonardo says, reeling for a moment and then gathering himself. "I am sorry, I have not returned with good news. They are about to launch one of my war machines – and several duplicates of it."

Ezio immediately goes serious and motions him to take seat. "Please, tell me about it."

Leonardo nods and then reaches for his bag, to take out the scale model he'd made in early stages of the production. "It looks like this," he says, setting the model town onto the table.

"A chariot?" Ezio asks.

"Mounted on it is a weapon of my design, a rapidly firing gun that one needs to load on periodically.  It has the capacity to fire dozens of bullets without break," Leonardo says, crossing his hands and staring at the chariot model in dismay. It is one of his simpler designs – but it would turn the tide on any battle field to Borgia's favour, if they managed to deploy it. "I tried to introduce flaw to the system that would prove fatal after repeated firing, but the overseer managing the project eventually discovered it and repaired it. It is now ready for action."

"Then I must put an end to it," Ezio says, eying the chariot and no doubt impressing it to memory before looking up at him. "Where might I find the overseer?"

Leonardo tells him. "The weapon is being constructed in Alban Hills, it and its many brothers. You must be thorough, Ezio," he adds with despair. "If a shred of knowledge of them remains, they might be rebuilt."

"I will take care of it, Leonardo," Ezio promises and reaches to take the chariot model in hand. He considers it for a moment before looking up. "You do not look well, my friend. Don't tell me the Borgia are now failing to feed you as well as pay you."

Leonardo lets out a laugh. "It had been hectic couple of weeks," he admits. "Since you took out the flying machine guards and work has been doubled on all the sites. I'm afraid there hasn't been much time for rest."

It's gratifying to see Ezio's expression darken with worry and anger at that, but Leonardo looks away. He knows better by now, than look for something in Ezio's eyes that will never be. His eyes land instead onto a – "What is this?" he asks, reaching for folded piece of paper.

It is a wanted poster, folded several times over and into itself, creating a sort of three pronged paper dart.

"I have a new recruit who makes them," Ezio admits with a laugh. "He calls it an, what was it, aero-plane?"

Leonardo turns the paper construction in his hand. It's surprisingly sturdy, the way it is folded. It also looks like it has wings. A slight weight – yes, below, the thicker part would need to go underneath, wouldn't it? Weight underneath and wings above, it should be able to…

"This flies," Leonardo says slowly, frowning.

"And smoothly too. Throw it, you'll see," Ezio tells him, mimicking a throwing gesture, "Go on."

Leonardo looks over the hall and then throws the paper construction, aiming it carefully upwards. He expects a slight rise and then quick dib down – the surface of the dart has been decreased and it has weight at its core, so he expects the weight of the paper to plummet down rapidly. But doesn't.

It glides with grace all across the hall and slowly descends onto the floor where it lands on its belly, and not on its nose. Leonardo stares at it, his mouth hanging slightly open.

"I've played with those things more than is probably respectable," Ezio admits with a chuckle. "It's a far better use for the paper than having it posted all across the city with my face plastered over them, at any rate."

"That is wonderfully clever," Leonardo breathes and quickly stands to fetch the paper dart. "However did your recruit figure it out?"

Ezio shrugs. "He seems to have something of an engineering mind," he admits and leans his chin to his palm, smiling. "He's currently at the smithy, making Beatrice a hidden blade."

Leonardo frowns and considers the paper dart. "Your newest recruit is a smith?" he asks.

"I have no idea no idea what he is, only suspicions," Ezio admits with a shake of his head and stands up. "All I know for sure is that he is very strange and a capable fighter regardless."

"And he can make hidden blades?" Leonardo asks, interested. "It must be relief for you, to have your own blacksmith."

"Well, I already did – I invested in the smithy Miles is currently working at," Ezio shrugs. "But it would be relief to have someone here who can make our more specific weaponry. Machiavelli spoke of commissioning them from you but I'd hate to trouble you for them, more than I already do."

"Honestly, Ezio, I don't mind," Leonardo says and turns to look at the paper dart. "If anything, your commissions are a small relief and respite from the work I have to do for the Borgia."

"But making them puts you in danger," Ezio says grimly. "If anyone sees you working at a hidden blade… I'd hate to see what they might do."

Leonardo shakes his head. "Some risks are worth it," he says. "But if you have another to help you, I can only be glad of it."

"If it soothes your ego, Miles' work is far less artistically pleasing than yours," Ezio chuckles and considers his own hidden blades. "His is a block of unadorned metal – it works, but it's not very nice to look at. Yours are far finer."

"Ah, you don't need to flatter me," Leonardo laughs, though it warms his heart a little. He looks at the paper dart again and then makes to throw it. "Not very artistic, then, your recruit."

"For all of his scribbles, no," Ezio says. "He's lowborn, he doesn't have any formal training in the arts, I don't think. Have you eaten yet?"

"No, not yet, I couldn't stop to eat if I wished to make it here in good time," Leonardo admits and throws the paper dart. The second glide is no less pleasing than the first, though it ends up shorter – the paper dart catches some current of unseen wind mid flight and swings to the left instead, hitting a bookshelf before coming down. More weight at the nose might make it more stable… or might make it come down faster…

"Come, then," Ezio says and claps him on the shoulder. "I sent Beatrice to fetch Miles from the smithy. We'll make a dinner of it and then you can ask Miles about his paper toys."

"There are others?" Leonardo asks with interest.

"I'm swear I'm running out of wanted posters with that young man's habit of making toys of them," Ezio laughs and motions him to follow. "Tell me of your time with the Borgia – how goes it in their war camps?"

"Dismally, for my part," Leonardo says, fetching the paper toy and then following Ezio into the dining hall and through it to the kitchens. As Ezio starts going around the kitchen searching for ingredients, Leonardo moves to help him, but Ezio waves him off.

"You are a guest here," Ezio says and checks the fire in the stove. "And you look dead on your feet – sit down, Leonardo. I can handle a kitchen."

"One can only hope," Leonardo laughs. "I still remember the mess you made of mine in Venice."

"That was the one time only and I was drunk," Ezio says with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I've had more practice at cooking since. Let me show you while you tell me of the Borgia."

"By all means," Leonardo laughs and sits down to watch him, detailing what he'd learned at the camp.

He's been here only once before, when they'd first met in Rome – Ezio had shown him around the still yet empty hideout, before its adornments, before anyone had fully settled it. The kitchen had been empty then, only vacant surfaces and empty shelves and nothing actually edible present. The kitchen is fully stocked now, and Leonardo isn't particularly surprised to find it stocked like a proper villa kitchen – no, a _palazzo_ kitchen, rather. One might even call it over stocked.

Ezio still remains a nobleman at heart, Leonardo muses, and settles down to watch his friend cook.

Ezio is almost done by the stove when there is a sound by the door. Beatrice enters the kitchen with a slight bow of her hooded head, casting a smile to Leonardo and greeting Ezio with, "Master," before letting someone in as well.

Just for a small moment, Leonardo is confused.

Light grey hood over a shadowed face, stabled chin with lean cheeks and high cheekbones – and scar over the right side of his lips. _Ezio,_ Leonardo's heart says, except Ezio is standing by the stove, lifting the pan off it as Leonardo tries to ease the confusion.

"There you are," Ezio says. "Get the cutlery and set the table; this almost finished. And get the wine bottle from the corner, will you; we might as well finish it now. And the bread too."

Beatrice hurries to do as asked, getting plates and cups. The man by the door hesitates for a moment and then turns to fetch the wine bottle. His fingers, Leonardo notices, are burn marked.

Ezio lifts the pan to the kitchen table, foregoing the dining hall entirely and the younger assassins quickly set the table with plates and cutlery, along with cups and a basket of bread. Soon there is also cheese on the table, and thinly sliced pieces of ham.

"Leonardo, you already know Beatrice Simone da Roma," Ezio says. "This is Miles da Firenze, our newest recruit. Miles, this is my very good friend; Leonardo da Vinci."

"It's an honour," the young man says, his voice quiet, as he bows his head slightly with a hand over his heart.

"The honour is mine," Leonardo says, standing up and bowing his head slightly. Da Firenze, hm? How very interesting. "You made this, I hear?" he asks and shows the paper dart.

For some reason, the young man ducks his head at that. "… yes," he says, awkward and nothing else.

"How did you come up with it?"

"Er," Miles da Firenze answers, uncertain, and glances Ezio's way.

"Ask him no questions and he will tell you no lies," Ezio scoffs in good humour and sits down by the table. "Sit down before the food goes cold, will you?"

They sit down quickly, Ezio and Leonardo across from each other, and Beatrice and Miles at each side of Ezio. Leonardo looks them over – the master and his two students – and hides a smile. It's good to see Ezio coming to his own like this – he's been so alone in his work as Assassin for so long.

Both Beatrice and Miles are a little awkward in his presence, though – both still new to their lives in the Brotherhood. Beatrice has been Ezio's student less than month, Leonardo recalls, and most of that time was spend with Ezio's allies, learning the ways of mercenaries and thieves. Miles is newer still but he seems more settled though, than Beatrice who hardly dares to look up from her food. The young man sits with straight back and level chin, and he doesn't seem to actively avoid looking up. But he doesn't speak either.

"Ezio tells me you can make hidden blades," Leonardo comments to Miles da Firenze. "Have you made one before?"

Miles glances up from under the novice's grey hood and again Leonardo is struck by the similarity between this young man and how Ezio had looked at his age. It's only the hood, he tells himself, and swears to get over it. There would be other recruits in the Brotherhood, some of them would be male and he couldn't let his heart run away with it every time they happened to look like Ezio. Likely, they would _all_ look at least a little like Ezio, thanks to the Assassins' preferred uniforms.

"I've made one," the young man says and grips his right arm. He has no gauntlet, Leonardo had noticed – the hidden blade must be under his sleeve. "But it was more by fluke than anything. The second isn't coming along as well."

"You're having difficulties?" Ezio asks while reaching for a slice of bread.

"I had… a different work shop to use back then," Miles answers awkwardly and looks down to his food. "And the actual diagrams for making the blade."

"Hmm," Ezio answers, arching his brows and glances at Leonardo. He's smiling a little, like there's a joke Leonardo is missing – perhaps there is. "I don't suppose you have enough time here to help my young student at his task, Leonardo?"

Miles glances up, hesitant.

"I can perhaps give some pointers, but no, I don't have much time here," Leonardo says rather regretfully. "I need to be back at my workshop before morning and even with the use of the tunnels it takes time to travel."

"Of course," Ezio says and Miles bows his head.

"But I will do what I can to help," Leonardo promises. "The designs aren't so difficult; I should be able to sketch them out."

"That would help," Miles says with a sigh. "Thank you."

Leonardo arches a brow at that and glances at Ezio. It seems the Master has given the student a task a little beyond the young man's ability. Ezio arches his brow back and breaks the bread he's holding in two. "That's settled then," Ezio says and dips the smaller piece of bread in his food. "Thank you, my friend."

Leonardo nods his head, curious. There is something going on here, something secretive. How curious. "It is no trouble."

Ezio nods and then turns to Beatrice. "Now, tell me of your training with the thieves," he says. "How did you like the La Volpe Addormentata?"

"It was very – informative," Beatrice says and then, at first hesitantly and then with greater confidence launches into detailing her training under La Volpe and his thieves. Leonardo listens with half a ear – La Volpe Addormentata is where he'd ran into the young assassin recruit, who La Volpe had then given to him as an escort to Rome, so he already knows most of what occurred there.

He is a little more curious about Miles da Firenze, he has to admit.

"If I give you the instructions on how to rebuild a hidden blade, will you show me how to make this?" Leonardo asks, motioning to the paper dart.

"It's not that hard," Miles says, turning his head a little. The grey hood leans to his face, just like Ezio's does, pressing against the side of his cheek and temple and contrasting the contours of his face in shadows. "It's just folding in once on one side and then twice on the other. But I'll show you."

"Thank you," Leonardo says, smiling through the old ache and looks away. The accursed hood marks them as Assassins, killers – and yet he's always found the shape of it to make them look a little coy too, the way it covers their eyes, how it leans in when they do look up enough for their eyes to show. It's a very distracting combination, lethal danger and demure diffidence intertwined. He's learned to ignore it with Ezio, because he's Ezio, but somehow seeing it on someone else… it makes it seem new again.

Leonardo looks to Ezio, tracing his eyes over the more familiar bearded face under the pure-white hood of a Master Assassin and smothers a sigh. The hood is riding low on him, too, but Ezio has mastered living with its edge over his eyes – and he's mastered himself under its shadow. Ezio no longer looks demure with the hood and there is nothing shy about the glimpse of his eyes in the shadow. These days he only looks deadly and menacing.

Once upon a time, though, when they'd been younger and the world brighter, when Ezio had still smiled more than not… when Leonardo had still had hope that maybe…

Leonardo looks down and from the corner of his eyes he spots Miles, watching him. The young man turns his face away before Leonardo can discern his expression, but for a moment he looked… almost sorry. What did he see?

Does it matter?

Leonardo sighs and reaches for the cutlery again. He really must be more tired than he thought, to indulge in these old thoughts, these old regrets.

Beatrice finishes her tales of her training and Ezio nods, satisfied. "I will have you two sparring together soon," he says, to both Miles and Beatrice. "You will no doubt be working together quite a deal so it is better you get used to each other's fighting styles. But you can have the rest of the day to yourself, Beatrice – take the opportunity to rest and wash if need be."

"Thank you, Master, I'd like that," the young woman nods.

Leonardo looks up. "And what of my mission, Master Ezio?" he asks, half amused and half worried.

"I'll be _attending_ to the overseer tonight, with any luck," Ezio promises. "And to the machines as soon as I can, Leonardo, you have my word."

Leonardo nods, grateful. "Thank you," he says.

Miles has already finished his food by the time Leonardo finishes his and when Leonardo stands, so does the young man, quickly taking his cutlery and dishes to the awaiting pail of water. "I will get you paper and ink," Miles says, bows his head briefly to Ezio, and then hurries off. Leonardo glances after him, wondering. Ezio had chosen a rather strikingly tall student hadn't he?

"I'll escort you back to La Volpe Addormentata, Leonardo, once you are done," Ezio says. "I need to exchange few words with Machiavelli first."

"He's here? And you didn't invite him to eat with us?" Leonardo asks. "How rude of you."

"Machiavelli almost never eats with us, I've learned better than to bother with it," Ezio waves a hand and stands, draining the last of his wine and setting his cup down. "Wait for me once you're done with Miles."

"Of course," Leonardo nods, and takes the paper dart again

Miles is already in the main hall when Leonardo enters it, spreading out a wad of papers across it before stetting down a bottle of ink and number of quills. Some of those papers, Leonardo notices, are wanted posters – and not all of them are of Ezio.

"You have quite a collection," Leonardo says with amusement, taking one of the wanted posters. It shows another simplified figure in a hood – a rounded hood, this one. Not Ezio then, but another assassin, wanted for the attempted murder of the Pope it seems, along with half a dozen actual murders. Leonardo had heard something about it but…

The hooded man on the wanted poster has a scar on his lips. "Is this _you_?" he asks, glancing at Miles.

The young man coughs, awkward. "I just keep them for material," he mutters. "It's cheaper than buying paper."

"I'm fairly certain it's forbidden to take down wanted posters," Leonardo says, a little amused.

"So is assassination," Miles says dryly, and motions to the table. "Please."

Leonardo takes a seat, shaking his head and setting the wanted poster down. Miles hesitates over the table for a moment and then sits across from him, to watch him.

"Here, the design of the internal mechanisms of the hidden blade," Leonardo says and as Miles leans in to watch, Leonardo sketches out the design in quick quill strokes, detailing individual parts before drawing a quick diagram on how they go together before writing down the measurements to the sides. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, thank you," Miles says and accepts the design, looking it over. "I'll be able to make it, eventually. It won't be as pretty as this though. Mine is… lot simpler."

"Can I see?" Leonardo asks with interest.

Miles hesitates for a moment and then pushes his right sleeve up to show the blade strapped down to his inner arm. It is indeed not as elaborately designed as Leonardo's own creations – Miles' hidden blade is a mere flat piece of metal, bound down with three belts, with nothing adorning the metal, not even the Assassin's Brotherhood's ancient symbol.

Leonardo hums in interest, reaching over to touch it. Miles holds out his hand, watching him from under his hood but saying nothing as Leonardo triggers the blade. "This metal…" Leonardo murmurs and looks up. "What is it?"

"Steel." Miles says while watching him carefully, his face expressionless.

Leonardo frowns a little and then looks down at the blade. It's not normal steel, he thinks. And the way blade was made, the sheath and mechanism of it… it's too precise. The lines are far too smooth, the seams far too perfect. And he's never seen such perfectly angled pieces of metal as the loops to with the leather belts have been attached to.

"You _made_ this?" Leonardo says slowly.

Miles' lips twitch and he shrugs before re-sheathing the blade and pulling his sleeve back over it. "You wanted me to show how to fold the plane," he says then, and reaches for one of the wanted posters. "Here."

Leonardo leans back a little and watches him fold the paper dart – it really is quite simply made. "Why do you call it a plane?" Leonardo asks, once Miles is done, and handing the folded wanted poster at him. "What does it mean?"

"It's what it is," Miles says with a shrug. "From Latin word for level, _planus_ and Greek word for wandering, _planos_. A level thing that wanders in air; airplane."

Leonardo arches a brow at that and then makes to throw the little plane. "That is very clever."

"Hm," Miles agrees, neither proud nor humble for his cleverness, and watches as the paper airplane flies across the hall. "There are other ways to make them too," he says and glances at Leonardo. "I could show you."

"I'm afraid I don't think I have the time, right now," Leonardo admits with a regretful sigh, spotting Ezio coming to the hall. "One day perhaps."

Miles looks between him and Ezio. "Yeah, maybe," he says and stands up, taking the designs Leonardo drew for him as he rises. "Thanks for this," he says and nods his head in respect. "Maestro."

"You're welcome," Leonardo says and with another bow Miles backs away.

"Heading back to the smithy?" Ezio asks.

"If you don't mind," Miles says. "I think I can finish the blade now."

"By all means," Ezio nods and motions him to go ahead. "Report to the Mentor when you're done."

With another nod, Miles rolls the designs carefully and then turns to leave without another word, leaving Leonardo alone with Ezio.

Ezio says nothing until the heavy front door closes after the novice assassin.

"He seems talented," Leonardo comments, still wondering at the metal of the blade. It wasn't just polished, he's not sure it was polished _at all_ – instead it had surface which was as if made rough intentionally. It did not reflect light when it hit it and yet it was very clean. _Odd_.

"Machiavelli is convinced he's a Borgia spy," Ezio says, making a motion at him.

Leonardo blinks at that and rises at Ezio's insistence. "If he is, I have never met him when dealing with them, I'm sorry," he says slowly. "If you think him a spy, why did you recruit him?

"I don't think he has anything to do with Borgia, honestly – though he does have secrets. Come with me I have something to show you," Ezio says then. "And I would like your honest opinion on a notion I have. I'll even pay for it, if need be."

"You can always have my consultation free of charge, Ezio," Leonardo chuckles as he follows him. "It is only the material things I have to charge for and even then only for the supplies they take. Is it to do with that young man?"

"Yes, very much so," Ezio sighs and then leads him to the Mentor's office in the hideout. Machiavelli isn't there, but Ezio enters the room without hesitation and then shows Leonardo to a side table. There, in a chest, lies number of… odd items.

"When he arrived, Miles was wearing these," Ezio says, and lays them out. Shreds of clothes, odd pieces of metal chain – shoes. "His explanation for them was pitiful to say at least, but we let it pass for now. The question still remains, though – where do these come from?"

Leonardo considers the items, one at a time. The clothes are easy enough to dismiss – new fabrics are made all the time, and there are seamstresses with incredibly even stitching like one shown in the odd shreds of clothing. The footwear though…

The soles are moulded, that much is obvious, though the material escapes Leonardo's understanding. Closest he can think to it would be some sort of resin, perhaps, but he's never encountered a resin so yielding – and yet so firm. He can press an indent of his nail onto the material – but it smoothes itself out after, like a sponge. In either case, the sole was created by putting the material into a mould.

The sides of the shoe are harder to figure out. It's fabric stretched over some sort of stiff yet soft inner material that exists obviously for support – however that was made aside, the fabric is… not only odd but _impossible_. No loom could produce such a precise pattern, none he knows of anyway. And there is the stitching too, the incredibly even and precise stitching. _Too_ precise.

"What do you think?" Ezio asks.

"These were made mechanically," Leonardo says. "I cannot identify the material of the sole and this fabric is… it's too even. And the stitching, it cannot have been made by hand. Some sort of machine did this, a machine for stitching."

"Is such a thing possible?" Ezio asks, astonished. "A machine, like your war machines?"

"Something far more delicate and precise, I'm afraid. I have never heard of anything like it but I cannot say it couldn't be possible, having seen what I have," Leonardo says and strokes a hand over his beard. "These are incredible. What was the young man's explanation for them?"

"Apparently he found them in St. Peter's Basilica," Ezio says and shakes his head. "I had hoped you could tell me more – if anyone would know of the Borgia's or the Church's ability to make such things…"

"They have no such capability," Leonardo says shaking his head. "Surely if they could do this, they'd have little need for me."

"Might be another engineer," Ezio comments. "You are not the only one in their not so willing employment."

"I assure you – I would know," Leonardo says firmly. "Mainly because I would be using their services myself – with mechanical stitching like this my flying machine would've _soared_."

"Ah," Ezio says, smiling a little. "As you say, Maestro."

Leonardo shakes his head at that and then sets the odd shoe down, frowning. "Is this what you wanted my opinion on?" he asks. "On where these shoes originate? Because, my friend, I'm forced to say I do not know. I've never seen the like."

"Neither have I," Ezio sighs. "And I don't know what to make of them either. They are only shoes, only clothes – nothing as dangerous as your war machines – and yet they make me uneasy. Machiavelli even more so. Neither of us likes things with no explanations."

"Why haven't you asked Miles da Firenze?" Leonardo asks, confused.

"Oh we have. He lies, or at the very least he refuses to tell us the full truth," the Master Assassin says with a heavy sigh, and then he tells him everything.

Miles da Firenze turns out to be far more puzzling a person than Leonardo had realised. Flight from the Vatican and then a whole world of lies on top of it, each more confusing than the one before. According to him the strange clothes had been just lying around in the tunnels under St. Peter's Basilica, and then he'd just changed into them for no reason? It makes no sense.

Leonardo arches an eyebrow. "And yet you recruited him, after all that?" he says. "I admit I don't understand. Machiavelli suspects him, and you obviously have your own doubts as well, _and_ he's a liar. Why is he here, then?"

"He shows blue within my sight," Ezio says and looks away. "That is another thing I wanted your honest, true opinion on. I have a suspicion, and I… hardly dare to think it," the assassin admits with an awkward laugh and looks away, the smile fading from his lips. "He… looks great deal like me, doesn't he?"

Leonardo coughs and looks away. "Yes, it's… quite the likeness," he admits.

Ezio nods slowly and bows his head. "Do you think it's a familial one?"

It's said with such tentative tone that it takes Leonardo a moment to actually understand the words. "Ezio," he says then, utterly loss for words.

"Miles da Firenze is twenty five years old," Ezio says. "He comes from Florence – a bastard with no family, but with keen interest in the Brotherhood… and in my self. So much so that when he thought the Auditore family had been wiped out at Monteriggioni he broke into the Vatican to extract some form of revenge. He said it was for a loss of _everything_ and he refuses to give details on it. And he is… very awkward around me."

Leonardo gapes at him. "Twenty five," he says then. "That would have made you – sixteen, seventeen?" he says, considering. With how Ezio had been at that age… it's really not beyond realm of possibility. "Oh, my friend. Have you _asked_ him?"

"I think he will literally jump into the Tiber River if I do," Ezio says with an awkward laugh and covers his chin in his hand, to hide whatever expression that threatens to break through. "Do you think I'm right, Leonardo? Or am I just imagining it?"

Leonardo hesitates. It is a very close likeness, so much so that it had confused his poor heart for a moment… but he couldn't say. It's all very sudden and he doesn't know Miles da Firenze or his backstrory – though his accent is a dearly familiar one, it is hardly a proof of a blood relation. "I think you need a higher authority than me to decide it," he says then.

"Who else could I possibly ask?" Ezio asks almost desperately. "Machiavelli will think me a fool for considering it. You are the smartest man I know, Leonardo, if you can't tell then who can?"

"Your mother," Leonardo says plainly. "If anyone can tell, it will be Madonna Maria."

Ezio pauses at that, looking at him from under his hood and then away, indecisive. "She would, wouldn't she?" he muses.

Leonardo folds his arms and then looks away. He is… not sure what he is feeling. Old bitterness and joy, wrapped together in a bitter sweet ache. It would only be a thing to be glad of, for Ezio's sake – he's lost so much. And yet… oh, he's jealous.

How unworthy of him.

"Blood relation would not explain these," Leonardo comments, considering the shoes, thinking of the strange hidden blade. The _plane_ , good god. "These aren't things merely beyond our knowledge, Ezio – they are beyond our _time_."

Ezio looks his way. "You think so?"

Leonardo nods, frowning, thinking. "When I had the Apple I saw things within it, whispers of future to come. In time, these sorts of things will be possible," he says and then shakes his head. "But not yet. We do not yet have the means to make things like these."

"Do you think the Apple was involved?" Ezio asks grimly.

"I think it might be the only thing to explain this," Leonardo says and glances at him. "But I cannot say how, I'm sorry. It was weeks ago when Rodrigo took the Apple from me, I have no notion about what has been done with it since."

"Rodrigo Borgia has the Apple," Ezio repeats slowly, in tone of dawning realisation. "And he knows where the Vault is. He tried to access it before."

"According to you he couldn't open it," Leonardo says, frowning.

Ezio looks at him. "But _I_ could. We do not know how these objects work – but if Miles is of my blood…"

"… then he might be able to open the Vault as well," Leonardo murmurs. "If the Borgia found out about him somehow… oh Lord. It wasn't a revenge attempt, his foray into Vatican, was it?"

Ezio nods darkly. "He was fleeing from captivity."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra long and extra convoluted chapter in Leonardo's honour.  
> (And yeah the unrequited love tag is for Leonardo's epic decades long torch for Ezio)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talk of prostitution and allusions to sexual helplessness in this chapter. Nothing actually happens but it's being talked about.

Desmond has come up with a strategy. He's not so sure about how good that strategy is – he's not so sure about anything anymore, being in the past hasn't been anything like how time travel movies made it out to be. But it is a strategy anyway.

He's going to write a codex of his own. He's already started planning it out. It's not going to be pretty, he doesn't even have Altaïr's drawing abilities never mind something like Leonardo da Vinci's. Probably it won't even make sense to most people… but it will detail knowledge on aviation, at least the basics of it, and lay the ground work for later things.

It'll probably not actually get him anywhere – writing a book and getting that book spread around are two different things, judging from what Desmond remembers about Shaun's rants about scientists of the time, how their works either never got off the ground or were buried or destroyed by the church. Desmond doesn't have much hope about writing something and then having it magically spread and change the world…

But if he writes something, maybe one day someone will read it, make sense of it, build up their own work of it. It's a start, right?

There's a question what language to write it on, though. All more scientific texts are in Latin in these times. Desmond knows some Latin, thanks to Ezio who'd been taught Latin as a boy, being a nobleman and son of an assassin who probably thought he'd one day find use in being able to reach possibly illicitly acquired Church documents. But knowing _some_ Latin isn't the same as being able to coherently explain the precise details of aerodynamics, laws of thermodynamics, low and high pressure in air, things like that – things he needs to get across for anything to make sense.

He can draw a diagram of a wing to a stealth jet – which apparently he _knows_ how to do now – but it won't make much difference to anyone unless he can also explain _why_ it works how it works. And for that, Desmond just doesn't have the language. Ezio hadn't exactly been taught in language the humanist studies – he knows _enough_ Latin to make use of it, not to write a book on it.

English won't mean much anything to anyone in Renaissance Italy, if it even is the same English as the one spoken in future. Arabic could also work, but Altaïr had passed the torch onto Sef _before_ he had really started his writings, so Desmond hadn't gotten the benefit of Altaïr's later skill at it.

In the end, Ezio's writings in Italian – the letters he wrote to Claudia, the books and codices he wrote for the Brotherhood, the writings he left behind – are a better groundwork for Desmond's writing than Altaïr's Codex. Ezio had written for the Brotherhood and within the Brotherhood Latin wasn't common – lot of his recruits came from the peasantry, not the nobility or the church, after all. It was better to write his guidance to them in more common tongues – Italian and sometimes French, the more widely used language.

Maybe it's just as well. In history lot of knowledge was locked behind a language barrier – common people could never get the benefit of it because they simply could not read it, or learn from it. Desmond didn't even want that. It would make whatever he wrote less… legitimate in the terms of the times, and less likely to be taken seriously, but it would do for now.

The _Aviation Codex_ thus begins on March 1502, in Rome, with the first folio of it titled _Aerodynamics_.

* * *

 

"I hope it's been working well for you," Desmond says, watching Beatrice flick her wrist and with it thrust the hidden blade out. "I'm sorry it's not as nice looking as the Master's blade – I'm not that artistic."

"I don't need it to be pretty, so as long as it works," she says and thrusts her palm forward. "I'm not used to it yet. Why must it be on the inner side of the wrist, why not outside – or on the side?"

Desmond shrugs. There had been modifications on the design later on – like the pivoting blades used by the colonial assassins in Connor's time. In Desmond's though the blades weren't that common – they were more a tradition than anything else, a mark of rank than actual useful tools. Guns and computers kind of replaced the traditional ways somewhere along the way. But there were those who still used them – and some who used their in a sideways tonfa style, with the blade extending beside the pinkie, rather than from inner wrist.

"I don't think it has to be, design wise. It's just how it is," Desmond says with a shrug. "Tradition, maybe."

Beatrice nods and does few more thrusts with the blade, getting herself familiarised with the motion of it. It's funny, how much more… human she is in real life than she'd been in the Animus. In the Animus Ezio's recruits had been a side note at best – a gimmick at worse – and Desmond had never paid much attention to their personalities because they never showed any. They weren't important in the search of the apple, so the Animus never bothered to fully flesh them out.

Beatrice Simone isn't a game mechanic though. She's a human being, a young woman on the shorter side of average, with dirty blond hair and quiet determination. She's pretty, too, which Desmond hadn't paid any attention to before, but which now makes him wonder.

"How did you get recruited?" Desmond asks. "If you don't mind me asking."

Beatrice pulls the blade back. "I don't mind," she says, glancing at him. "It is a little strange, isn't it, for a woman?"

"Is it?" Desmond asks, trying to recall. Ezio's brotherhood had been mostly women, hadn't it? Or it had been pretty even split.

"You don't think so?" Beatrice asks, bowing her head a little and hiding her eyes under the edge of the hood. "You don't think it's… wrong for a woman to learn how to fight, kill?"

Desmond shrugs. "Wrong by whose standards?" he asks and leans back where he's sitting, on a bench by the wall of their training hall. "We're assassins, what we do is always going to be wrong in someone's opinion. We kill people. I don't know if you being a woman makes it somehow more wrong in your case. It's all for a reason. Right?"

Beatrice says nothing for a moment. "It was my brother."

Desmond frowns. He doesn't remember that. In his memory Ezio's recruitment style was mainly _find a civilian fighting the Borgia soldiers and see if they want to join._ "Your… brother got you recruited?"

"No, it was my brother that made me want to fight," Beatrice explains and glances at him. "He was all I had. Our mother died when I was born, and my father drowned in the Tiber when I was very young. Emilio raised me," she says then. "Little less than year ago he was recruited to the Borgia army – week later they told me he died. They didn't tell me how, I just got Emilio's body back and then had to bury it and that was that."

"Shit," Desmond says quietly. "I'm sorry."

"He was all I had, I couldn't let it go," Beatrice murmurs. "So I… found out what happened. It took four months. Emilio was killed by his own captain – training accident, apparently."

Desmond shakes his head. "Did you get revenge?"

"Not yet," Beatrice says and glances his way. "Master Ezio found me when I was fighting the guards – I was trying to get into the tower where that coward that killed my brother was hiding. Master promised me that one day, once I had some training, we'd take it down together."

Desmond nods slowly. Yeah, that would make for a good recruitment point, wouldn't it?

"And that's how I got recruited," Beatrice says and shrugs before looking at him. "How about you?"

Desmond lets out a small laugh. "I took down a wanted poster and got into fight with the guards over it," he says. "It was… kind of dumb."

Beatrice considers him for a moment and then shakes her head. "Why did you join, though?"

"I don't really have any other place to go," Desmond admits. "And I don't like the Borgia any more than you do."

"You're not from Rome, though – you speak like Ser Ezio."

"… Yeah," Desmond says and then stands up. "But I don't have to be local to care, or to want change. Do you want to test the blade out on targets?"

"Yes," Beatrice says quickly and together they set the straw filled bags which are used in practicing with the hidden blade.

Soon Desmond is throwing targets at Beatrice to test the hidden blade on. The idea is for Beatrice to skewer the bag before it hits the ground, training both her speed and her accuracy with the blade. It's a training method Desmond knew nothing about until Ezio had showed it to him in real world – the Animus had completely foregone the actual upkeep that went into keeping Assassin's skills up. The Animus had foregone a lot of things, really.

Desmond is getting used to it, though it's still hard to not compare the two. The Animus had been a censored, sterilised version of history made streamlined and pretty for easy consumption, it feels like. Reality is gritty in comparison.

"If bag hits the floor before you hit it, leave it," Desmond says. "Hit the stones with the blade and I'm probably going to have to make you another one.

"They are so brittle?" Beatrice asks worriedly.

"If the blade bends even a little, the mechanisms won't work," Desmond shrugs and prepares to throw another bag of straw at her. "It's not a blunt force weapon – the idea is to use it only up close and on a clear opening."

"Right, I'll keep it in mind. You know a lot about them," Beatrice comments and then launches into a leap to catch the bag before it hits the floor.

"You figure out a lot about a thing when building it," Desmond shrugs.

Building the blade had been fun too, fun and utterly nerve wrecking. Not only was he constantly under watchful eye of a blacksmith – who eventually just took the hammer off his hands and told Desmond to tell him what he wanted made and stop making a mess of perfectly good metal – but he was also under the watch of Machiavelli's spies. Every time Desmond leaves the hideout, he's under watch, really, no matter how short a trip he makes.

Price he pays for being a bad liar.

Desmond throws another bag for Beatrice to skewer and she hits it cleanly before lifting her other hand, to call for a break. She's breathing hard. "Do you want to practice?" she asks, wiping sweat off her eyes.

"Take a break, I can go in a moment," Desmond says and goes to pick up the bags while Beatrice sits for with a sigh.

"This would be so much easier without the hood," Beatrice says and pushes it back. "I know why we wear them, but to train in them too…"

"We need to learn how to do everything with them," Desmond comments. "Be bit embarrassing to get blindfolded by your own hood when you least expect it."

Beatrice chuckles, and pushes her dirty blond hair back and away from her face. "The Mentor doesn't wear a hood," she comments.

"Hm, he doesn't, does he?" Desmond agrees. Of course Machiavelli, like Claudia and Bartolomeo and in a way La Volpe too, was a job outside the Brotherhood and with it he has appearances to keep. But even beyond that… Ezio was pretty much the only one who went in full assassin regalia, hoods and tails and all, of all of the Brotherhood in Italy – at least, until he started his Brotherhood in Rome and enforced a dress code.

"It's a disguise that doesn't disguise us," Beatrice muses, tugging at her grey sleeves. "It is a little strange."

"It's a uniform."

They both look up and to the doorway, as Ezio steps into the hall. "I see you've been training," their teacher says, sounding satisfied.

"Welcome back, Master," Beatrice says and quickly stands to clasp a hand over her heart and bow. Desmond does the same. "I hope your hunt was successful."

"It was – I found what I was looking for," Ezio says, stepping into the room. He looks over the straw bags Desmond has piled for another bout of training. "Miles, you finished the blade?"

"Yes, we were testing it out," Desmond says and motions to Beatrice.

She quickly pulls up her sleeve to reveal the blade to Ezio. It's, in word, ugly. The work on it had been mostly been done by the blacksmith who actually knew how to work his forge, with Desmond explaining what he needed and putting the whole thing together for the Blacksmith to then seal. No where near as smooth as the one Desmond has or as pretty as Ezio's blades, it's a rough rectangle of scorch marked metal, strapped down with leather belts to Beatrice's arm.

Desmond winces a little at the sight of the edges of the metal digging into her skin. "I'm sorry, it didn't come out very good."

"But it works," Beatrice says. "And I wear it under my sleeve, like you do, so it doesn't matter what it looks like."

"Still…" Desmond sighs, embarrassed. Even the wooden one he made as a kid looked better. "Maybe with some practice I can make a better one and you can replace it."

"Hmm," Ezio says while examining the blade, triggering it to eject the blade. He tests it by grabbing the blade between his fingers and jostling it a little. "The working is sharp enough. And the blade is firm," he comments.

Then he reaches for his own right arm, unclasping his vambrace and then taking off his hidden blade from it, showing the actual blade sans the shell it was normally set in. It's smaller than Desmond's more rough construction – but not that much different. The biggest difference is the curling patterns engraved to the top.

"They're rarely more complicated than this," Ezio says while Beatrice compares her blade to Ezio's. "And the decorations add nothing to the actual function. We'll find a vambrace your blade fits in and then the outlook will hardly matter."

"Yes, sir," Beatrice says, sounding a little relieved. Desmond sighs.

"I'll do better on the next one," he promises.

"I'm sure you will," Ezio says with a mild smile and straps his bade back in. "But that will have to wait. I'll be riding for Alban hills today – it'll likely take me at least few days to make it back. In that time, you two are going to start training at Rosa in Fiore."

Desmond nods slowly while Beatrice goes very still. "Rosa in… Fiore?" she asks slowly, her voice faint. "The brothel."

Ezio looks at her, snapping the last belt on his vambrace taunt again and then rolling his wrist to help it settle. "It's not what you think, Beatrice," he says gently. "When I was young, I learned the act of blending in with crowds and sneaking up on targets from the courtesans of Florence. The courtesans here too are our allies – and Rosa in Fiore is run by my own sister. Nothing untoward will happen."

Desmond glances between them and then carefully says nothing. He knows how Ezio's relationship with the courtesans went, how he utilised them as distraction and disguise. For Beatrice though, it would sound like something completely different.

"And – and I don't –" Beatrice asks, nervous, clutching at her hidden blade. "I don't have to…?"

Ezio looks at her seriously for a moment. "I won't promise it might never come up," he says quietly. "This life of ours is not kind to us, and everything that we can utilise as a weapon eventually might be. Including our bodies."

Beatrice blanches at that and Ezio glances at Desmond. He's quiet for a moment, serious. "That means you too, Miles," he says then. "I did not choose either of you for your looks, I chose you for your spirit… but nonetheless you are both easy on the eyes or that is an advantage you might and probably will one day make use of." Ezio turns to Beatrice, who is staring at the floor now, her face set like mask. The Master Assassin sighs. "Sometimes easiest way to a target is a route that will take you by someone's bed. It might not be for assassination, it might be for distraction or information, but regardless it's a possibility you need to prepare yourself for."

"Yes, Master," Beatrice whispers.

"Yes, Master," Desmond agrees, wondering if he should comfort the girl, if he should put hand on her back – would that freak her out more? He doesn't in the end, keeping his hands carefully to himself.

Ezio looks between them, and then clasps them both by the shoulder. "It will not come to it anytime soon, I promise," he says seriously. "Now, get a set of extra clothes and then we'll be off to Rosa in Fiore."

Beatrice nods and hurries out of the room. Desmond turns to follow her but Ezio stops him with a hand on his chest. "The blade was well made," Ezio says. "Aesthetics aside. Well done."

"… thank you," Desmond says, confused. "The blacksmith did most of the work though."

"Regardless," Ezio says and looks him over. He hesitates for a moment as if about to say something and then shakes his head. "Be sure to pack some paper. I'm sure the courtesans will enjoy your little toys."

"Right," Desmond says. "I'll… do that?"

Ezio nods and lets him go, and with a baffled shake of his head Desmond heads out of the training room. He doesn't have much in way of possessions – the book where he's writing the Aviation Codex, the posters he's collected illicitly over the past days, and the stolen set of clothes he'd arrived in. But he packs it all anyway, along with the few coins he have.

"Miles," Beatrice speaks form the doorway to his room – or rather, the otherwise empty dormitory style room, which is the men's sleeping quarter. Women have their own dormitory – and since Desmond and Beatrice are the only recruits so far, this means they both have the large rooms with multiple beds all to themselves.

"Yes? Do you need help packing?" Desmond asks.

"No, I have everything," she says and wrings her hands. "You weren't surprised. Did you know?"

Desmond hesitates and then finished rolling up the posters he's taking with him. "Yeah," he says. "I did."

"I see," Beatrice says and bites her lip. Desmond looks her over and then looks away so as not to stare. She is very pretty though – and blonde, which is rare in Rome. With what she'd told, about her parents, her brother…

Women don't have much in way of making a living in these days, do they? If you don't have a family to rely on, or the benefit of high class up bringing and family money… there are only so many things you can do to survive, if you're a woman and alone. If marriage wasn't an option, and in Beatrice's case it probably isn't…

"I suppose it's easier, when you're a man," Beatrice says bitterly.

Desmond shakes his head and looks at her. She's angry and betrayed and afraid. She probably has every right to be. "I'm sorry," he says. Like Ezio he can't exactly promise her it would never happen, can't really offer any false hope. Ezio definitely used sex as way to get what he needed, and from what Desmond remembers of the guild contracts, seduction had been used at least couple of times by the recruits.

He gives Beatrice a serious look. "You knew it wouldn't be an easy life."

Beatrice's shoulders slump a little and she leans onto the doorframe. "Do you think there will be other women in Brotherhood?" she asks quietly.

Desmond thinks back – Ezio's second recruit had been a woman too, wasn't it? Or third, now that Desmond had been inserted in between. "Yeah, I'm sure there will be," he says and then stands up. "And like Master said, Rosa in Fiore is run by his sister. She's an assassin too."

Beatrice frowns and looks up. "She is?" she asks with surprise.

Desmond frowns. Had Claudia been inducted into the Brotherhood yet? "Well… she's his sister. She's as good as?" he says uncertainly. "Probably."

Beatrice nods slowly and bows her head a little. "You know, I worried so much when Master asked me to join him. I feared it might mean… that he might…" she trails away with an awkward little laugh. "But he never did. I was _so_ glad. And La Volpe and the Thieves, they were rough in training, but they never touched me outside it, never expected anything. I thought… I thought I wouldn't ever have to…"

Her words wither to silence and Desmond shoulders the bag where he has his meagre belongings. "Beatrice," he says. "Even for Ezio it's rare. Yeah, I knew it might happen _one day_. But I doubt it will be expected of us all the time – we're not prostitutes. We're _assassins_ ," he says and motions to her hidden blade. "And now you will be always armed. Right?"

Beatrice breathes in and then out and nods. "I'm always armed now," she says. "Yes."

"Even the courtesans carry blades," Desmond tells her. "And trust me; nothing ever happens to them that they don't allow."

Beatrice nods again. "Right," she says and her shoulders slump a little. "Thank you."

Desmond nods and looks at her. "Would you like a hug?" he asks seriously.

Beatrice lets out a weak little laugh and then holds out her arms. She's so much shorter than him that the top of her head barely reaches his shoulder – but though small, she's already firm with wiry muscle. "Thank you," she says again against his chest. "For the blade, too."

"It's okay," Desmond says and pats her shoulder. "Anyone would be worried. It's alright."

Beatrice nods and then pulls back. "Come on," she says and wipes at her eyes. "Master waits."

"Mmhm," Desmond agrees and together they head out.

Ezio is waiting them in the hall, his arms folded as he stares into the distance. He glances up when they arrive, but his eyes are hidden under the hood – his mouth is set in firm line.

"Ready to go then?" the Master Assassin asks.

"Yes," Beatrice says with a deep breath. Desmond just nods and shoulders his bag.

Ezio looks between them seriously. His eyes linger on Desmond for a moment and Desmond worries what he'd done wrong now, what he'd let slip this time – had Ezio overheard them? Had he let something slip? Damn it all. He'd been doing so well too.

But Ezio doesn't say anything in the end, just sets his jaw and turns to the door.

"Let's go," he says and steps out of the shadow of their guild hall and into the sunlight, his two students close behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to flesh out Beatrice bit more.


	10. Chapter 10

"Madame, Ser Ezio is coming."

Claudia looks up from the record books and then smothers a sigh. There goes the morning, she thinks and closes the book. Ezio would have the whole house in disarray after maybe a five minute visit and she can just imagine the demands he'll make this time – _find me this, send your girls over here, have them distract this person, have them steal this for me_. For a whore house, Rosa in Fiore has ended up doing a lot of errands.

Not that she didn't know it would end up that way when she begun. She might've been all but cloistered away in the Auditore Villa in Monteriggioni while Ezio flounced about in Florence and Venice in hood and tails, but she heard things. Mario, at least, did not treat her as a child. And Claudia knows how well prostitutes and Assassins go hand in hand.

In Ezio's case in more ways than one, really.

"Get the customers into rooms," Claudia says and stands up. "I don't care if they pay for rooms, just get them out of the hall."

"Yes, Madame," Tessa says and quickly hurries off to talk to the other girls. Soon, the girls are leading the men up the stairs and to any available bedroom there in, whispering and giggling and crooning as they go in the teasing dance Claudia has become very familiar with.

She'd never looked down on prostitutes, not really, looking down on anyone not deserving it just wasn't done in Auditore household. But since taking up the management of Rosa in Fiore Claudia had build up a respect for them that hadn't been there before. There is such skill and artistry to their seduction and misdirection, such cleverness to how they aim their words and touches, that it seems a little like some secret magic. Her girls are as much enchantresses as they are entertainers, really.

When the front door is eased open and Ezio's hooded figure graces their presence once more, the hall is empty but for the girls who have no one to entertain. Claudia steels herself for Ezio – for his demands, his hard expression, for his avoidance – and is surprised to find he doesn't come alone. Another follows him – a woman in grey hood much like Ezio's pure white. This must be the _girl_ then.

Claudia takes a breath – but her greeting dies on her lips when a third figure follows, taller than Ezio. A man in grey hood similar to the girl's, and armour and clothes similar enough to Ezio's to mark him as his student, if not a full Assassin, yet.

Ezio has taken a new student?

"Claudia," Ezio says, his eyes finding her instantly, and Claudia shakes away her surprise.

"Ezio," she says and steps forward. "Welcome back to Rosa in Fiore. What can we do for you today?"

Ezio glances around. "Is Mother here?"

"She's in the kitchen, I think," Claudia says. "It'll be time for breakfast soon. She helps my girls cook," Not that Rosa in Fiore really had set times for meals – it wasn't as if the girls or their customers worked on a schedule. The food made for breakfast would be available in the kitchen up into dinner time, however, so they could eat when ever they had the time.

"I see," Ezio says and then motions to the two with him. "Claudia, these are Beatrice Simone da Roma and Miles da Firenze – my recruits. Beatrice, Miles – Claudia Auditore da Firenze, my sister and the Madame of Rosa in Fiore."

They both clasp a hand over their hearts and bow their heads – how like soldiers, they act. Claudia rests had hands at her hips, looking them over – especially the girl. She's pretty, she notices. Of course she is.

"It's a pleasure," she says anyway. "Welcome to Rosa in Fiore, her doors will always be open to the Assassin Brotherhood, so if you ever need shelter, you might find it here." 

Ezio is watching her closely, his eyes narrowed in the shadows of his hood, searching her face. She's missed something important then, damn it. Claudia looks over the female recruit again – she's pressing her lips together hard enough that they are turning white. Nervous, is she? Hmm. Then Claudia's eyes slide over to the male recruit.

The man has a scar across his lips – the exact spot were Ezio's scar is. Claudia glances at Ezio and arches a brow at it, to which Ezio dips his chin just slightly and narrowing her eyes Claudia looks to man again. The scar could be a coincidence or some utterly ridiculous homage to the man's teacher – except it can't be recent, not with how well it's healed. It's a year old at least, possibly older. There's something else.

Miles _da Firenze_ wasn't it? An illegitimate boy from Firenze?

Claudia's lips press together and she looks to Ezio. Surely he didn't.

Ezio steps closer. "When I was in training, I was taught by Paola of La Rosa Colta," he says, turning a little to look at his two students. "She and her girls taught me how to blend into crowds, how to sneak up on targets, how misdirect, and many other skills. I would have your girls teach my students the same."

"They are _your_ students, Ezio, not mine," Claudia says, though frowning.

"I am busy," Ezio says and glances around at the few girls hanging around the front hall. "And such skills are better taught by their masters, I think. I certainly learned better first hand. Imagine La Volpe trying to teach such skills. Or Machiavelli."

Claudia snorts. Now _that_ would be a sight she would pay a great deal of money to see, Machiavelli playing the part of a courtesan. Even as a _courtier_ the man is hopelessly stiff. "I think I see your point," Claudia says. "But that doesn't mean I like it."

"In us Assassins is embodied the best of the three guilds of thieves, courtesans and mercenaries," Ezio says seriously. "And I would have these skills be taught by the best."

"I already agreed, brother, you needn't butter me," Claudia scoffs and looks at the two future Assassins. She swears she can see the girl's knees shake a little. The boy though is just looking around, curious. "I will ask for re-compensation for the time my girls spend on this."

"After all I've invested in this house already?" Ezio asks, quietly affronted.

"We're working women, Ezio. Our time is valuable," Claudia says with a sniff. "Money or favour, which is it?"

"Favour, of course," Ezio sighs. "What is it?"

Claudia nods in satisfaction. "There is a man that has been hurting my girls, one so badly she came back limping with a broken ankle," she says and folds her arms. "I'd rather he stop and _soon_."

One benefit to their alliance, this one. Ezio can't protect them from everything, their lives will never be so kind – but when that line is crossed, the Assassins are there, always, in defence of their allies. "I haven't the time now," Ezio says apologetically. "I'll be riding out of the city and I won't be back in few days at least," he says. "But after, I'll deal with him. Or, you could send Beatrice and Miles."

Claudia arches a brow, looking to the pair. "Are they ready for that?"

"That's for you to decide," Ezio says. "So you'll take them?"

"For how long?" Claudia demands.

"However long you think it will take them to learn what you have to teach," Ezio says and turns to look at his students. "I'm sure they will be quick learners," Ezio says. "Won't you, Beatrice, Miles?"

"Yes, Master," they answer in unison, heads bowed. Again, like soldiers. It makes Ezio smile, a slight thing teasing at the corner of his lips. It's barely a smirk though – nothing like the easy smiles of Ezio in their youth. 

Claudia steels her heart against it – that darkness that stole the warm kindness from his brother's heart and left him hard and unyielding. He commands people now, he trains people to follow him and kill for him. Their kinder days in Florence are long past them. But perhaps... something of those days had caught up with them.

"Girls," Claudia says, glancing to two loitering near by, giving Ezio – and Miles, judging by the glances thrown the tall young man's way – some considering looks. "Show our two guests into rooms in the back."

"Yes Madame," Doretta says and eagerly reaches to wind her arms around Miles' arm. "Right this way, darling."

"Lead the way," Miles says, his voice quiet and easy but not flirtatious. Interesting. The girl Beatrice hurries after him, as he lets himself be drawn away by Doretta's tender mercies.

"Brother, you _didn't_ ," Claudia hisses the moment they're out of earshot.

"Oh, lord, you see it too, don't you?" Ezio asks and almost slumps. "I was afraid I was imagining it."

"You did not bring your bastard here all unannounced, here, where _our Mother_ lives. Tell me you didn't!" Claudia says, leaning in. Ezio leans back, grimacing and Claudia pushes at his shoulder. "What were you thinking?! And why haven't you told me?!"

"I didn't know!" Ezio hisses back and then takes her by the shoulder, leading her towards her record books and little further away from the girls in the hall. "I didn't know anything about him – I still do not! I met him less than a week ago, spotted him fighting Borgia guards – and that was after he send whole of Vatican in disarray escaping from the Borgia. It wasn't until some days in that the suspicion started settling in and it's still unconfirmed."

"Wait, he's the one who ran rampant in the Vatican last week? And he hasn't said anything?" Claudia asks. "Ezio, the boy is a spitting image of you!"

"He's… I don't know," Ezio blows out a breath and drags his fingers through his hair in frustration, pushing his hood back as he does. "He lies; I don't think he wants me to know. I don't know why, but he seems… ashamed."

Claudia opens her mouth at that and then the tone of his voice stops him. He seems… at loss, which is new for Ezio, or new these days. Then Claudia frowns, leaning back. "It's all unconfirmed? And you're still sure?" she asks suspiciously.

"I'm _not_ sure," Ezio sighs and shakes his head. "It's only a suspicion. I'd hoped that you and Mother – if anyone could tell…"

"You could just _ask_ him," Claudia says flatly.

"You can't imagine the house of lies he's built to keep it from me," Ezio scoffs and shakes his head. "He'd deny it."

Claudia stares at him for a while in disbelief. "Why?" she then asks, confused. "Why would he lie, when he's obviously joined the Brotherhood?"

Ezio grimaces, licking at the scar on his lip – nervous habit he got in Florence and almost got rid of by the time of Venice. "You know of the Apple and the Vault under the Sistine Chapel? We – Leonardo and I – have a theory as to why Miles is here, how he's here – and why it might be that he wants to keep it from us."

According to their theory, there is something special about the Auditore blood – Ezio's in particular – that had allowed him to open the vault. He is the Prophet, after all. Pope Alexander had failed in trying the same, but he must still want to get into the vault.

"I was there only for a moment, but that moment already changed everything. What could you gleam from prolonged study of the place?" Ezio says and shakes his head, looking uneasy. "To open it you need the Apple and the Staff. The Staff is still there and the Borgia have had the Apple for months now – but I didn't worry about it because I knew it wouldn't open for them. But if Miles is what I think he is… he might very well be able to."

Claudia frowns. The Goddess Minerva and all the magic she'd spun for Ezio to see had been such a wonderful fairytale when Ezio had told it the first time – now, now it seems terrifying. It seems too much. "It seems a little far fetched, brother," Claudia says, worried and uncertain.

Ezio shakes his head. "There are things Miles da Firenze knows, things that do not make sense," he says. "And things he _has_ or had that make even less so. Knowledge, devices, clothes made with _machines_ , things that are not possible. Not unless he has used the Apple," he says and squeezes his fingers into a fist. "In my battle against Rodrigo Borgia, I used the Apple for a time. The feeling of it, that power just at my finger tips, all that knowledge bubbling just below the surface… it was too much for me."

Claudia swallows. "But why would he not tell you?" she asks. "Why hide it?"

Ezio bows his head. "Leonardo had the Apple for a while, Cesare Borgia had him use it to make his machines… you cannot imagine how terrible he made them after. Or how ashamed of them he is," he says. "I am heading to Alban Hills to destroy one of Leonardo's terrible creations and all record of it, at his behest. What might've Miles created, under the same yoke and with the same power?"

There's a moment of silence as Ezio contemplates the dark vision he paints and Claudia tries to wrap her head around it. With all the terrible and fantastical things that had occurred to Ezio, it's not so unbelievable, is the thing. Except perhaps for one thing. "But Ezio, how on earth could you have a child and _not know_?" Claudia asks. "He must be well over twenty!"

"Twenty five, yes," Ezio says darkly.

"Then – you would have been _young_. We were still in Florence, we were still well known and liked. Surely such thing would've been known –"

"If I count the time right, he would've been born just around the time of the executions, Claudia," Ezio says quietly. "Not a good time to advertise any relation to the Auditore, don't you agree?"

Claudia closes her mouth at that. "Oh," she says, and frowns.

"It's likely he's been taught to hide it by his mother, keep it a secret. Such things easily become a habit," Ezio sighs. "And then the Borgia found him, and who knows how long they had him, what they had him do for them. People hide bigger secrets for lesser reasons."

Claudia turns her head away while running her hand over her chin, not sure what to say to that. It seems… logical but it's also so sudden. Surely they would've known if Ezio had a bastard running around in Florence, _surely_? Auditore had been powerful and wealthy once – if any one of them had a bastard they would've found the mother at their door the moment the child was finished drying…

But Ezio isn't wrong about the executions – only a fool would've flaunted connection to them after that. And they'd left Florence soon after. Ezio had visited but even he had been more centred around Monteriggioni – and then he'd left for Venice for years on end. And by the time Ezio gained any reputation as _the_ Assassin… that connection would've been more dangerous still. First there had been the Pazzi, now there are the Borgia…

"Still, it is only a suspicion, nothing is confirmed," Ezio says, though he doesn't sound so sure about that. "Maybe I'm only inventing it to try and make sense of what otherwise refuses to be sensible. Maybe I'm just… dreaming."

Dreaming? Claudia looks up to her brother and is struck by how lonely he looks all of sudden, his head bent low, his shoulders stiff. And how lonely he has been, with the rift between him and everyone around him growing only wider every year. Nowadays when Ezio visits, it's hard to say if he's family or complete stranger, really.

To now have a son, and not just any son, but son in the very Brotherhood he's building…

"Ezio," Claudia says, and reaches for his hand.

Her brother draws a breath and straightens his neck. "See what you can see," he says. "He knows of you, I over heard him talking with Beatrice – he assumed you'd be an Assassin."

"I could be," Claudia says, narrowing her eyes.

Ezio smiles a little at that and shakes his head. "I need to go, I've already delayed too long," he says. "Leonardo's machine is ready to be deployed in the field – I must get it before it will be. Will you… look into this in the mean while?"

"While I teach what might be your son the ways of whores?" Claudia asks and then stops. Ezio's son. Her nephew…

Their mother's grandson.

"We need to talk to Mother before you go," Claudia says.

"Claudia –"

She snatches Ezio's wrist before he can pull back or make a run for it. "You are not leaving it to _me_ to break the news of her potential grandson to her," she says fiercely. "Even if it is only a suspicion, you're telling her yourself."

Ezio makes a face. "And if it is just my imagination and Miles is not –" he shakes his head. "It would give her false hope."

Claudia grimaces at that. "And yet you still brought him here, hoping we'd be able to tell for sure? It's cruel, Ezio. And I am not going to let you flee the consequences. Now come on – you are introducing your students to our mother."

Ezio fights against her grip for a moment but in the end he follows her. Well into the fortieth decade of his life and her brother is still such a child, Claudia thinks with a shake of her head and then goes about finding Ezio's two students.

The pair of Assassin novices been settled into one of the rooms in the back, which lack all the lavish of the guest rooms above, but are far more comfortable. The room they'd been settled in had two small beds, a divan, a drawer for clothing and shelf for books – not many of Claudia's girls could read yet, but she and Mother were changing that in time. Whoever had the room had already cleared out her things from it, and Beatrice and Miles are putting their things away in the drawers, stopping when Claudia and Ezio enter.

"Is the room to your liking?" Claudia asks. "I hope you don't mind sharing."

"It's fine," Miles says and Beatrice nods, though she's staring at the floor. The girl's obvious unease with whores would have to be dealt with first, Claudia muses, but that would have to wait.

"Good. Now come," Claudia says briskly. "Your Master must be off soon, but before that we want you two to meet someone. Our mother."

She looks at Miles as she says it – and there is a flinch there, a slight twitch of the young man's scarred lips. He knows, Claudia thinks and quickly forces the sudden beating of her heart to settle. Not letting anything slip, she turns and leads them towards the kitchen, her brother close at her side.

Claudia glances at Ezio, who is frowning. He'd noticed the flinch too.

Neither of them say anything as they enter the kitchen, a wall of warm air and the smell of freshly baked bread hitting them full on as they enter. Maria Auditore da Firenze is well in her element, apron tied around her waist and stained with flour as she directs the girls around the kitchen, to chop this and stir that and slice the bread up just so.

It's a good day, Claudia thinks and almost feels the relief radiating from her brother as he, no doubt, thinks the same.

"Mother," Ezio says and steps forward.

"Ezio!" their mother says in delight and then hugs him, something he bears without a single complaint or hint of hesitation despite the flour stains it leaves on his pristine Assassin robes. "Oh I did not know you were here, how lovely it is to see you. Is something the matter?"

"No, nothing is wrong – I am here only to leave my students in Claudia's care," Ezio says, reaching to brush a stray lock of greying hair from her face. "And to see my lovely Mother," he says with a most charming smile.

"Oh?" Maria says, instantly suspicious. "What have you done this time, Ezio?"

"Nothing!" Ezio says quickly.

"Oh really? You only flatter me so when you've done something wrong, my son," Maria says sharply and tugs at his robes. "And these days the list of your potential sins is terribly long, so spare me the trouble of guessing and confess."

"I have nothing to confess!" Ezio says and squirms under her narrowing stare. "Mother, honestly."

"Did you two fight again?" Maria asks, turning to Claudia.

"Not this time," Claudia admits, smiling, enjoying Ezio's squirming _immensely_. Terrifying Assassin indeed – forever cowed by his mother. She glances to the way of Ezio's students and is pleased to find a surprised, even amused look on Beatrice's face – this might do for a start of easing the girl into thinking of whores as people no different from herself.

Miles though… he's not even watching. He's looking at the window instead, his head angled down towards a beam of light drawn into the dusty, flour riddled air. Claudia thinks of how Ezio looked not moments before, the lonely line of his broad shoulders. Miles stands exactly the same way, his head bowed at the same angle.

Yes, he knows, no doubt about it. He knows and it hurts him.

"These are Ezio's students, Mother," Claudia says, not looking away from the boy. "Beatrice Simone da Roma and Miles da Firenze."

"Madame," Beatrice says and nods her head in respect. Miles does the same and just as promptly as she does – but he doesn't quite lift his head after. In the shadows of his hood, Claudia can see his throat work, the way his lips tighten around whatever expression of feeling he's trying to swallow.

"Ah, it's a pleasure to meet you, my dears," Maria says, her hand grasped around Ezio's arm. She nods, looking pleased. "New Assassins. The Brotherhood has been diminished for so long – it is good to see some new blood. "

Claudia looks away from Miles to Maria and then to Ezio. Ezio is looking down at their mother, waiting – but there is no reaction.

"Take off your hoods," Claudia says. "For God's sake, we're indoors and safe, you don't need to hide here."

"You will wear them in training," Ezio adds quickly. "But no, you don't need to wear them here."

Beatrice pushes her hood down without hesitation, sighing and quickly pushing her blond hair back – she seems even relieved to be free of it for a moment. How hot it must be, to wear the things all the time, Claudia can't even imagine.

Miles hesitates for a moment before pushing his hood back as well, letting it fall against his shoulders. Claudia only barely stops her mouth from gaping at the sight of him. His hair is short and nothing like Ezio's but his face, good God, his _face_.

Spitting image of Ezio indeed. Spitting image, only even prettier.

Maria sees it too, frowning a little. Her eyes flicker to Ezio and then to Miles and then back to Ezio, her frown darkening. "Ezio?" she asks slowly, almost nervously. "What is this?"

Ezio looks to Claudia for help and when she only arches her brows, he turns to Miles. The young man looks between them, hesitant, while Beatrice's eyes widen and she turns to look at her fellow novice, her expression one of sudden realisation. Then everyone is staring at the young man – even the girls helping Maria cook are staring.

Claudia arches her brows at the boy. "Well, Miles _da_ _Firenze_ ," she says. "Do you have something to tell us?"

The boy's golden brown eyes widen and scarred lips part, but it takes a moment before he manages to say anything and even then it comes out very quiet.

"… oh, _shit_."

Well, Claudia thinks with a sigh and runs her fingers over her eyes. That settles that, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not how I planned this revelation to go. [I had something more along the lines of this planned](http://esamastation.tumblr.com/private/171229698741/tumblr_p4nff3EupL1sfnlkf) (The link opens on browser, but not on tumblr app, so beware of that)


	11. Chapter 11

Desmond knows Ezio had other children than the one that led to him. The man slept around like he _breathed_ – like it was partially unconscious reflex and partially matter of survival. See a beautiful woman, try and sleep with her. It was hard to really judge the whole thing either, even Shaun hadn't managed to ridicule it, because even seen through the foggy looking class of the Animus, Ezio was just so easy going and charming that it seemed just kind of… nice?

And it wasn't like the man was performing adultery or anything like that – he didn't have anyone to be faithful for until Sofia and then he _was_ faithful until he died. Ezio loved easily and without restraint and as far as Desmond had seen he'd never ever left a lover unsatisfied or unhappy. Somehow, it had always been weirdly charming. Aww, look at the old tramp, there he goes again.

But there had been bastards. Shaun had once sketched up a lazy theory on how many and surmised that if there were less than half dozen of them, then Ezio was doing something wrong. They even had genetic proof of them, too, in Subject 16 – Clay Kaczmarek had had the bad luck of being related to Ezio through a much earlier encounter in his life. Old enough to get some memories out of Ezio's life as Assassin – but not old enough to get at the Apple. Nothing like Desmond, for whom that genetic torch had been passed from Ezio to Flavia when Ezio was well into his fifties.

So, it's not… exactly unbelievable. One might even say it was kind of expected and the fact that Ezio _hadn't_ met any of his bastards in life, now that was a bit unbelievable. Of course there is the whole Assassin thing, really, maybe new mothers didn't want their kids getting into contact with that – and right, Ezio was thought to be dead after Monteriggioni, almost all records of him had vanished after that, and there was the Pazzi conspiracy too before that, not exactly good time to be an Auditore and – and -

Desmond might be panicking a little.

"Well?" Claudia Auditore demands, hands resting at her hips – and she didn't look nowhere near this scary in Ezio's memories. Ezio always saw her as his little sister, something to be protected and sheltered – up until the point he found her with a bloody knife in hand surrounded by heavily armoured dead men anyway. But even after that, she'd still been… just his baby sister.

That mental image is now superimposed over a grown woman with steel in her core and imposing eyes and Desmond doesn't know how to handle that. How Ezio sees Claudia is very different from what the woman is actually like – she's in her late thirties, early forties now, and she's definitely not a little girl to be hidden away in a castle and sheltered. This is a woman who will stick a knife in someone if they get in her way, and she won't shed a tear over it either.

Desmond is definitely panicking a little.

And he can't look at Maria Auditore at all – he's seriously going to cry if he does.

"Well?" Claudia demands again.

Well… well she's not wrong?

What the hell is Desmond suppose to say here?!

"Leave us," Maria Auditore speaks suddenly and Desmond fights the flinch. She waves a hand at the girls, and begrudgingly they leave their tasks at the tables and by the stoves, leaving half prepared food they'd been neglecting behind and filing out of the room. After moment of hesitation, Beatrice follows them – Desmond kind of wishes he could too. But he doesn't.

He's nailed in place by the stares of the Auditore family, and he couldn't have moved from the spot even if the kitchen caught on fire.

The door closes behind Beatrice and then Desmond is alone with Ezio, Claudia and worst of all, Maria Auditore. And he still has no idea what to _say,_ what to do, how the hell is he going to get out of this one?

Fuck he'd known Ezio had suspected _something_ about him, Machiavelli definitely didn't believe a word that came from his mouth, Desmond had definitely not made a good job coming up with his cover story – but he'd thought that they might suspect the truth, not be inventing their own lies! And definitely not this!

The silence is _torture_ and they're still just staring at him and he's staring back and really if the kitchen caught on fire, it wouldn't be a moment too soon.

And then Maria steps forward.

Her two children move to stop her, but she waves them off, walking towards Desmond who watches each step like oncoming doom, deer caught in headlight, stuck in place by terror. She's a very gentle looking grim reaper, he thinks hysterically, and then she's there, right in front of him. Desmond swallows and his vision wavers.

Ezio had never allowed himself to cry over her.

He'd replaced that grief with rage and vengeance and breathed life to those fires until he lost the will to mourn entirely – but it had always been there, that terrible aching grief for her. She'd lost so much and it had broken her so badly until she was less than shell of herself, until looking at her hurt. She'd been such a strong, bright, _brilliant_ woman and then she became so close to nothing.

Ezio's way of dealing with that had been not dealing with it – he'd ran as far as he could and looked back as little as he could, leaving Maria in the Auditore Villa and trying not to think about her. Desmond would very much like to do that now too, please.

She reaches out her hands. There's flour under her fingernails and her fingers are warm, almost hot. Desmond hadn't expected that – in Ezio's memories she always seemed so cold and distant, but she's living here, _living_ , her hands radiating warmth.

"Look at you," Maria Auditore says, her voice wondrous. "You have your grandfather's nose."

Desmond breaks.

The part of his heart where Ezio took residence in thinks, _Mother_ , and there's Ezio's guilt and grief and rage and discomfort there, all of it wrapped up in a ball of ache in his throat. It's almost debilitating, how strong it is.

Desmond however hadn't seen _his_ mother since he was sixteen and ran away from home, from what he then thought was a cult training child soldiers to fight in an imaginary war against imaginary monsters. Last he remembers of own mother was her humming as she stitched up his bleeding lip, telling him, _your father is only trying to protect you,_ even as Desmond swallowed tears. _Shh, stop that Desmond, stop crying. It's a war. You need to be strong._

He hadn't felt strong then and he doesn't feel strong now, as Maria Auditore examines his face and traces the scar across his lips, her eyes wondering and warm and nothing like Desmond own mother's, who'd been an Assassin through and through and who, like William Miles, only told him he needed to be strong.

Auditore family had been a tragedy – but they had been a loving family first. And now Maria is looking at him with that love in her eyes, the sort of love Desmond doesn't think _anyone_ has ever had for him, uncomplicated and wondering and he – he can't –

Ezio and Claudia are staring at him, wordless, as Desmond cries silently into Maria Auditore's hands, helpless to stop it. She holds him through it, wiping the tears away with her thumbs and murmuring comforting words which really doesn't help at _all_ at this point, it just makes him cry harder until he's crying into her shoulder and they just _let him_.

"I – I need to go," Ezio says somewhere in the background, million miles away and Desmond can hear Claudia hiss something at him – they fight, he thinks, it sounds like they do anyway. Maria is stroking his back, though, and his nose is all clogged up and he can't really breathe so he misses most of it until Ezio walks around them, hesitating over them for a moment – Desmond thinks he feels a hand on his shoulder.

Then it's just him and Maria and Claudia and he's still _fucking crying_.

Why the hell can't he _stop_?!

"Shh," Maria murmurs in his ear, gentle smile in her voice and her hands warm on Desmond's back. "Shh, it's alright. You're home now. It's okay."

And so the waterworks continue.

* * *

 

"Ezio is a coward," Claudia informs him after, when Desmond has _somehow_ managed to scrounge up enough dignity to stop fucking weeping over the mother of his ancestor. She hands him a glass of wine, which Desmond accepts without a word. "Sure, he's a strong and impressive assassin and all that, but throw few tears at him and he turns into a cat – and god help him if he gets wet. Drink up, boy."

Desmond drinks. The wine is blissfully cool against the stinging ache of his throat – not refrigerated, but from a cold cellar at least. He can't taste a bit of it though – it could be sugar water for all he can tell.

"I'm sorry," Desmond says. Maria is sitting beside him, hand on his back, and it's hard to do or think straight with her there, being all…. _Maria_. "That was… embarrassing."

"Tch," Claudia answers and sits across from him with a sigh. "You see a lot of things when running a brothel," she says and leans her chin to her palm, looking at him. "Soldiers tell us the horrible things they've done, priests and cardinals confessing things they never tell to _their_ priests. You wouldn't even dream of the sorrows a husband might confess behind his wife's back. A crying man in a whore house isn't as unusual as you might think. We've somehow managed to learn to not take it personally."

Desmond manages a smile, shaking, and then takes another gulp of the wine. He tastes it this time – nothing he can identify, despite years as bartender. It's red wine, strong and thick on his tongue with aftertaste of smoky oak, very nice. Probably utterly wasted on him.

Claudia watches him for a moment and then folds her arms on the table. "Miles is an unusual name. French?" She guesses.

"I guess," Desmond answers because apparently that's what it sounds like to the locals. "I've never thought about it."

"Was your mother French?"

Desmond says nothing to that, eying the wine. He doesn't know how to answer really. His mother had been of mixed descend, Middle Eastern, bit of Spanish in there – he doesn't think she had a bit of French in her, but with Assassins it's hard to say. They're all mixed bunch.

"You don't know?" Claudia guesses.

Desmond sighs. "I'm sorry," he says, in lieu of answering. Probably if he tries to answer he'll just make this worse – and it's bad enough as it is. He's not looking forward to this particular story falling apart around him and he's not really keen on making it worse.

"But you grew up in Florence, didn't you?" Claudia asks, leaning in a little. "You were born, when, around 75, 76?"

Desmond shakes his head. 1987 actually, but who's counting the centuries here. "I don't know," he says. "I guess."

"Ezio says you're twenty five years of age?"

"I think so anyway, yeah," Desmond sighs and runs a hand over his eyes. He hadn't bothered to try and pinpoint his age in this time. Another thing he just hadn't thought of, damn it. How the hell had he managed this for ten years in the future, but here, it's impossible to keep things straight? "I'm sorry, I – I don't really know."

Claudia nods slowly, eyes narrowed in thought. "But you knew you were Ezio's son," Maria says beside him. "Didn't you?"

Desmond lowers his hand and looks at her – and _fuck,_ he… he doesn't think he can lie to her. "I – knew we were related," he murmurs and looks away.

"And you didn't tell him," Claudia says flatly.

Desmond bows his head a little. "I…" he tries to say but then just trails away, not sure what to say exactly. He didn't think Ezio would believe him might work. Who _would_ believe that? _He_ doesn't believe it – and they _are_ related. It's just through about dozen generations in between.

In the end Desmond just shakes his head mutely and Claudia sighs, irritated. "What happened with the Borgia and Vatican?"

Desmond says nothing to that, having no idea what she might expect. He just swallows and drinks his wine.

"When did they kidnap you?" Claudia presses on.

"They kidnapped you?" Maria asks sharply and looks at Desmond who is trying very hard to not to look as confused as he feels. "What happened – when did this happen? Why?"

"I –" have no idea what you're talking about, Desmond thinks and looks at Claudia, hoping to see some hint as to what she is thinking, what the hell brought this up. Since when was he kidnapped by the Borgia? When did that enter the story and how? "I don't know?" Desmond offers, confused.

"You don't know," Claudia says dubiously. "Come on, boy. A month, a _year_?"

Desmond shakes his head. "I don't know."

"What did the Borgia want from you?"

"I don't know –"

"What did you do for them?"

"I – don't know," Desmond says again and slumps a bit in his seat under Claudia's severe gaze. "I just – I woke up there. And then I ran away. And then I was in Rome. That's all."

Claudia stares at him hard for a moment and Desmond slumps lower in his seat, feeling as small as a damn mouse under that stare. Ezio definitely didn't see Claudia the way she really is, he thinks, and stares at his wine glass. "I'm sorry," he murmurs. "I really don't know."

"God," Claudia mutters in frustration and throws her hands up. "What do you know, then?"

How to make air planes and hot air balloons and gliders and parachutes, Desmond thinks. He knows how air current move and why air foils work the way they do and just how genius the construction of Leonardo da Vinci's flying machine really was in that it could glide at all, being as heavy as it is. He knows a lot of things that don't help shit in this situation.

After moment of hesitation, Desmond digs out the Codex he's writing from under his grey jacket and holds it out for her. Claudia frowns a little and then takes it, flipping the leather bound book open. At first she looks confused – then she's frowning in concentration, leaning in to read. "This is… what is this?"

Desmond shrugs, feeling like a damn teenager showing his homework to his parents, for fuck's sake. "What I know," he says and stares at his wine glass.

"Mother, look at this," Claudia says, turning the book so that Maria can look it over too. Together the two women leaf over the pages, peer at the rough diagrams Desmond had drawn, the sketched calculations that were paired with them, the short explanations he'd added in.

"Aviation Codex," Claudia murmurs. "I know Ezio's friend Leonardo has such notions, that he even made machines that could fly for a time, but this…"

Maria frowns as she turns the pages. So far Desmond has only written two parts of the codex – the folio on Aerodynamics which still needs some work, and folio on Wings – which, really, was a folio on Airfoils, but it's mostly explained by the dynamics of bird wings, so… From there on Desmond is planning to move onto artificially re-creating airfoils, maybe – ether that, or do more in depth thing on air currents, as basis for later folio on lighter-than-air aircrafts.

While Claudia and Maria peruse the codex, Desmond takes out the roll of posters he has tucked under his belt and eases one poster out of the roll, spreading it out on the table in-between them. Maria looks down as he starts folding the paper. Not into a plane this time, though – he kind of wants to impress them, a little, if that even is possible at this point.

It's a lot more folding than the rough poster paper can really handle, and Desmond breaks lot of the folds he makes towards the end. Still, it's something he's been thinking since meeting da Vinci but hadn't really had a reason enough to try yet, so he's been thinking about how to make it happen and it comes out… more or less how he thought it would.

"Oh," Maria says when the shape finally clarifies into something recognizable and there is a paper bird sitting in Desmond's hands. "Oh, how wonderful."

"That is… very clever?" Claudia says almost confusedly.

Desmond shrugs, feeling weirdly helpless, and then he throws the paper bird. It doesn't fly quite as smoothly as the planes do, nor does it go for as long – but it flies a bit, arching over the table and then diving down onto the floor in a sharp dip. They watch it fall and then stare at it on the floor for a moment.

"That's what I know," Desmond says and sighs. "How to make things fly. It's all I have in my head now. I'm sorry, I don't… really know anything else."

They stare at him wordlessly for a moment and then exchange confused looks. Apparently they don't have any better idea about what to do with that than he does, anymore.

"Did the Borgia put this knowledge into your head?" Claudia asks slowly. "Do you remember a sphere with light inside it, did you ever see it?"

Desmond swallows and bows his head. No it wasn't the Borgia, it was Minerva, but he can't exactly say that, can he? "I'm sorry," he just says.

"Right," Claudia says and then leans back. "Oh what a mess, what a terrible mess."

"Well, you are out of there now and with family, and that is all we need to know," Maria says and puts a hand on his shoulder. "And Ezio will come around too."

"I don't mind if he doesn't," Desmond says quickly. "None of this is on you. I'm just…"

"Nothing  _just_ about it," Claudia says and stands up, closing the codex and handing it over. "You are family and we have little left of it to spare, Miles da Firenze. We don't care that you're a bastard and we don't care if your head is stuffed full of feathers – you're Ezio's _son_. That's _enough_."

Desmond tries very hard to stop his lips from quivering as he puts the codex away again.

"Quite," Maria agrees and smiles, though sadly. "I wish we had known before. So many years we've missed. You're a man already – I wish I could have seen the boy you were."

If Desmond had been a boy in the Auditore Household as opposed to the Farm… yeah, that would've been a much happier childhood, wouldn't it, even with all the loss and murder. "I think I would've liked it too," Desmond admits quietly. "I'm sorry."

"Stop apologising," Claudia says with a sigh. "It has already happened and we're here now and here is all we have. We can none of us change the past."

Somehow Desmond manages to not to react to that.

"Now," Claudia says and picks up the paper bird from the floor. "I think we have neglected your fellow recruit for long enough – as well as my girls. There is breakfast to be made. Mother, can you manage it, or shall we help?"

"Just send my girls back in there, I can manage it," Maria says and then, before Desmond can make to stand up, she hugs him. It's easy and warm and quick and it leaves Desmond reeling a bit in its wake.

"Right. Come on then," Claudia says, idly weighing the bird in her hand. "Let's go see your fellow recruit, and have a nice and long chat about what's to come. Ezio wants me to train you and train you I will and I will train you _very well_ indeed, nephew. I have a question however."

"Yes?" Desmond asks warily.

"The scar," she says while turning the paper bird in hand. "Please don't tell me it's homage to Ezio, because he hardly deserves it, the coward."

Desmond somehow manages a small laugh at that, shaking his head. Looking pleased with herself at that accomplishment, Claudia nods and then leads him out of the kitchen.

* * *

 

It isn't until after a day spend of watching and listening to the courtesans of Rosa in Fiore and trying to manage the act of blending in with them never mind what clothing they wore, that Desmond lets himself properly freak out over what the hell had happened that day.

After all the things that had happened, all the things he'd seen and done and experiences through the memories of others… he's not sure how the hell he pulled this off. Claudia might think him bit of a simpleton now, though, what with the whole bit about not knowing anything but how to make paper birds – for god's sake, he really made a paper bird for her, didn't he – but somehow she now is convinced he's her nephew. Maria thinks he's her grandson.

 _Ezio thinks he's Desmond's dad_.

Holy _shit_.

"Well," Beatrice says, from the bed across from the one Desmond is lying on, staring at the ceiling. "This was a day…?"

Desmond blinks at the ceiling and then looks at her. She's sitting there with tense shoulders, hands clasped tight in her lap. Shit, Beatrice, he thinks and quickly stands up. "Are you alright?" he asks. "Sorry, I've been – out of it the whole damn day. Are you okay?"

Beatrice glances up. "You're Ser Ezio's son?"

Desmond shrugs and says nothing to avoid having to lie. "It's… whatever. Are you alright?"

Her shoulders slump a little and she hangs her head. "We just walked around all day," she says. "I don't know."

Most of the day had sort of went completely pass Desmond – he's pretty sure he'd done decent job at trying to blend into a crowd a courtesans though, but that's only because Ezio is so close to his surface now that it's easy to fall into his physical habits. For Beatrice though, it's a little different probably. Desmond, when he blends in with courtesans, would be blending in as a customer. A woman can't exactly do the same.

"It's very sneaky walking around?" Desmond says and leans in to look at her face under the hood. "Why don't you tell me about it?"

"You were here," Beatrice says.

"I wasn't paying attention," Desmond admits. "Did you have trouble with something?"

His fellow novice blows out a breath and runs her hands through her hair. "I don't – no, not really. The girls were all nice. They teased me a bit, but they were nice. And patient when I wasn't very good at what they tried to show me. I don't know why I'm so…"

"Hey, if you're not comfortable with something, then you're not comfortable with it, you don't have to explain it," Desmond says.

"But there was nothing really wrong!" Beatrice sighs and then shakes her head. "They were nice, the Madame explained everything very clearly – I don't know why I'm still so shaken about this. Nothing happened. We just walked around the city!"

And while walking people around you looked at you and dismissed you as another whore, Desmond muses and runs a hand over his chin. And Beatrice is probably still in part thinking about Ezio's warnings. And then there is Claudia too, and Maria – Ezio's mother and sister, the living embodiments of what might be ahead for Beatrice. Former noblewomen, members or at least allies of the Assassins Brotherhood… now running a brothel. It paints a pretty clear image.

"Do you want to be an Assassin?" Desmond asks.

"I do, I really do," Beatrice says and shakes her head. "And I am willing to make sacrifices for it – I'm not… I'm not going to shirk my duty. I am willing to do what I must, when the time comes."

Desmond nods slowly, watching her. "You've never been with anyone, have you?"

She frowns and looks up.

"Had sex? Made love?" Desmond clarifies and she goes beet red. "Ah," he says and scratches at the back of his head. Well… shit

"If you're suggesting we should do something about it I _will_ stick a knife in you," Beatrice threatens, clenching her fist.

"I'm not!" Desmond says, leaning back quickly. "But I get the nervousness now, it's normal, you know. Everyone's worried. You don't need to feel weird about it – it's okay."

She makes a face at him and then covers her face in her hands. "I feel like an idiot," she groans.

"I don't see why," Desmond says and shrugs. "Everyone's nervous about things they don't know anything about. It's all normal."

"I do know about it, I'm not a child. This is humiliating," Beatrice bemoans into her hands, embarrassed.

Desmond scratches at the back of his head again, awkward. He's not really sure how to console her about this – he's not even sure how these things work in these times. Things commonplace in his time are taboo and some things are just down right crime. And Ezio's memories are no help – he prefers his women confident and experienced. If Ezio had ever been with a virgin, Desmond is glad to say he knows nothing about it.

"Er," he says finally. "Maybe talk to the girls here about it. I mean, who would know better, right?"

Beatrice groans wordlessly at that and then looks up. "They're all so confident about it," she mutters. "They'll laugh at me."

"There's first time for everything and everyone," Desmond says and shrugs. "I'm sure they have stories to share."

Beatrice sighs at that and says nothing for a long moment, clasping her fingers over her mouth for a while. Then she looks up at him. "You're really the Master's son?" she asks then in obvious bid to change the subject. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Don't take it personally – I didn't tell anyone," Desmond sighs and leans back to lie on the bed again. Fuck he really is Ezio's son here now, isn't it? What the hell is he supposed to do with that?

"But isn't it nice?" Beatrice asks quietly. "You have family."

Desmond shakes his head. "I don't have too many good experiences with those," he admits. And with his luck he'll mess it up at record's speed too. "Fuck, this is messed up," he murmurs and runs hands over his face. "I just want to be an Assassin for a bit and then build a plane or something, is that too much to ask?"

Beatrice says nothing for a moment. "I don't think life is goes how we ask it to go," she says quietly.

"Yeah," Desmond agrees and closes his eyes. "Would be nice if it did, though, wouldn't it?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The paper bird Desmond made is [this thing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uqbZnbQgfu0) in case anyone is curious.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what day it is? It's a double chapter day.

"If you build this, and they get it out there? Cesare's army will be unstoppable."

Leonardo leans his face into his hands, half tempted to dig his fingers into his eyes. "Oh, I know," he sighs, rubbing his fingertips over his aching forehead. Ever since he had handled the apple there had been a constant pressure behind his eyes, and when he closes his eyes he can still see the after images of that light, burned scorched into his vision. Symbols, writings, markers. It's like someone had taken a hot poker and scored gouges into his mind with it.

"It's an incredible achievement," Salaì comments, leaning his elbows onto the desk. "Should it get out, you will be famous. Well, more so than you already are."

"Yes, because that is what I need in my life right now," Leonardo sighs and leans back, leaning his head back and away from the desk. For a moment he stares at the ceiling, imagining when he had the model of the flying machine there – but it's gone now, the only physical memento of it guarded by killers.

Then he looks down. Salaì smiles a little at him, a meagre show of comfort, and then looks down on the designs. Leonardo does the same.

"They really are remarkable, aren't they?" Leonardo says, rather wistfully. That change in the world he'd so wanted when he'd been younger, it's right there, in these drawings, and he can imagine the impact it would have. Land combat would be changed by this, even more so than by the introduction of cannons into arsenals around the world did. More than that, this thing… would alter the very nature of war.

Some of the knowledge that he'd used to make it came from the Apple, but enough of it came from Leonardo himself for him to be proud of the accomplishment. He'd once sketched something similar, but with the Apple he _knows_ he can make it reality. He also knows the impact it would have.

"I cannot let them have this," Leonardo says. "No, I need to make something else, this is too dangerous. The self propelled carriage perhaps."

"Cesare wasn't very impressed by that," Salaì comments and gives him a worried look. "You need to give him something bit more concrete than thing that takes months to build and can only do half the work a horse drawn carriage can."

"There is the gunship," Leonardo says and winces a little as his headache spikes. He rubs at his eyes again. "I could make the gunship first."

"And that's better than this?" Salaì asks, making a face. "What did you say – changing the nature of nautical combat –?"

"All of these change the nature of war, all of them," Leonardo snaps with frustration and pushes away from the table, to pace across the workshop. He's not sure what is the worst thing – a gun you can fire repeatedly and move around with all the agility of any old carriage, a flying machine that could burn all below it, a single long boat that could with _ease_ take down a frigate, or this accursed thing he's now come up with – which would dominate any battlefield it would be dropped on. Every single one of them is horrific.

And _beautiful_.

If only they weren't for war, he could be justly be proud of them, he could look at them and feel all the joy such success should deserve – but he _can't_ because the deaths caused by his inventions would be untold. Not only now, but in future, in next years, decades, _centuries_ that would be re-shaped by such tools of war.

"Why not the self propelled carriage?" Leonardo bemoans. "Anyone could use such a thing, and surely the benefit of not having the cost of a horse's upkeep would make it worth it?"

"You can't take down an army with a carriage," Salaì shrugs and watches him pace for a moment. "You started too big, Leonardo, with that bird of yours. Cesare is only going to be satisfied with greater things now. Like the machine gun."

"Yes, like the machine gun," Leonardo sighs and draws the beret from his head in order to run his fingers through his hair. Still no word from Ezio about that either. He knows the overseer of the project has been killed, the word reached him just few days ago, but as to the actual machine…

He'd sleep a little better knowing it had gone the way of the flying machine, as much as it hurt to see something of his destroyed. For as long as they had weapons strapped to them… it would be better that way.

"Leonardo," Salaì says, coming to his side. "Last time you delayed…"

"I know, I know," Leonardo murmurs wretchedly and his shoulders slump a little as Salaì rests a hand on his back. He doesn't have assistants left for Cesare to make an example of, now – there's only Salaì. And he cannot afford to lose Salaì too. Hopefully Cesare knows that by now, but… he probably doesn't care. "I will think of something, Salaì, I promise. Maybe I will have a tragic work accident and break my hand, can't very well be expected to design weapons of death and torment with a broken hand, can I?"

"Don't you _dare_ ," Salaì says and then looks up as knock sounds in the workshop. He sighs and gives Leonardo a look. "It's late. Maybe if you hide under the bed I can say you're not here."

"Alas, I think some soldiers saw me come in earlier," Leonardo sighs and sits down by his work table. He stares at the designs of the tank, narrowing his eyes. The work is still incomplete; he hasn't finished detailing the actual gears and wheels on the thing. Maybe… maybe he can introduce a flaw yet?

There's a knock again, insistent, and Leonardo sighs. "Let them in… whoever they are." At least, under Borgia regime, he doesn't have to worry about having his workshop invaded by robbers – it's already being watched by the worst robbers of them all.

Salaì flounces away, to open the door and lets in a figure which at first makes Leonardo's back tighten – and then makes his shoulders slump.

"Ezio," he sighs and stands. If Ezio's here, it means there either are no guards out side – or they have faced with an unfortunate accident in the shadows. In either case, "My friend, you are sight for my weary eyes. Please give me good news."

"Your machine –" Ezio winces and grabs at the side of his waist, "was a bitch, and I am happy to say it's gone. And so is half of the damn army that chased me when I ran off with the thing."

"A _bitch_?" Leonardo asks with affronted tones and then the sight his friend is in registers. "You're wounded – Ezio – " he hurries over to assess the damage. Ezio bears the investigation with a pained grunt – but thankfully, he's not bleeding. "It's a burn. Salaì, get water – the boiled water. And some clean cloth. How did this happen?"

"The barrel on your machine got red hot after a while and I was thrown against it," Ezio says with a wince as Leonardo leads him to the nearest bench and has him sit down. Ezio waves him off when Leonardo goes to take off his armour. "I can manage it –"

"Don't try to take off your robes, they've been seared into your flesh," Leonardo says, wincing, and then accepts the pail of water and cloth when Salaì hands them over. "This needs to be cut off…"

"I think it's becoming something of a tradition, your machines maiming me. Your flying one nearly took my legs off, you might recall," Ezio says and hisses as he lets his armour fall onto the floor in metallic clatter. "I think I destroyed all signs of it – all the models, the designs and the machines themselves."

"That's good, that's very good to hear," Leonardo says with a sigh and then, after wetting the fabric in the cool water, he presses the whole thing against Ezio's burn. The Assassin grunts with pain and leans away from the wad of cloth, but only for a moment. Then he's still, resigning himself to the pain.

He's pale with it, though, Leonardo notes. And the burn is sizable – he'd not only been thrown against the burning metal, but he'd probably leaned against it for few seconds – the burn covers nearly half of the right side of his waist, and precisely where the armour hadn't protected him.

"Here," Salaì says, and holds out the scissors. "To get the robe."

"Thank you," Leonardo says and while Ezio watches with a wince, Leonardo goes about cutting the robes around the wound, careful to not irritate it further. "I'm sorry my friend, I did not wish for you to be hurt."

"I've had worse," Ezio says, his eyes shut against the pain while Leonardo goes about removing the bits of white cloth stuck to the wound. Some of it really had been seared into his flesh – the rest got stuck in the clear fluid leaking from Ezio's blisters that had crusted over. With water to soften and dilute it, some of the cloth comes loose. The rest…

"Salaì, my knives, the clean ones," Leonardo says and then looks up at Ezio seriously. "This will hurt. But I must get the cloth off, otherwise the wound will surely get infected."

"Do it," Ezio sighs.

The process of cutting the burned cloth off his flesh is not a pleasant one, nor is it bloodless one. Ezio bears it for a while without a sound, his eyes squeezed shut. Then he looks up, searching for something to distract him from the pain. "Salaì, wasn't it?"

"And you'll be Ezio Auditore," Salaì says and smiles – and then winces as Leonardo cuts away another shred of cloth. "Not quite the way I imagined I'd end up meeting you."

"How did you imagine it?" Ezio asks through gritted teeth.

"Oh, I thought it would be somewhere in Leonardo's –"

"Salaì," Leonardo snaps. "Go get Ezio a shirt to wear, since his robes are ruined."

"Smooth," Salaì comments with a wink, but goes, leaving Ezio frowning and Leonardo wincing after him.

"He's cheeky," Ezio comments, looking after the assistant.

"An absolute nuisance," Leonardo agrees, examining the burn. It's bleeding now, but he got the burned cloth out of it. "You'll have a scar, but I don't think it's lethal. It will likely hurt like the devil for days on end, though, no doubt about that."

"What would you recommend, then, Doctor?" Ezio asks, smiling with a wince. "Fresh leeches applied directly to the wound?"

"Certainly, you could definitely do with a loss of blood on top of everything else," Leonardo says, rolling his eyes. "Keep it clean and keep it supple with aloe and maybe you won't be left with a tight patch of skin to contend with. And maybe try not to climb too many walls in a while."

"Wonderful," Ezio says and sways where he sits for a while. He's even paler now, his skin going clammy. "Really wonderful piece of machinery you built. It wasn't even aimed at me and it almost killed me."

"Oh it's just a burn, you've had worse," Leonardo says, though without much joy. Seeing Ezio in pain is never enjoyable. "How did you end up being thrown onto the gun barrel anyway? I'm assuming it was the barrel of the machine gun. It was designed to point backwards on the carriage – were you hanging off the back?"

"No, I was in the front. I was – distracted," Ezio grumbled and winces as Leonardo starts wrapping up the wound. "Son of a –"

"Sorry, sorry," Leonardo says and looks at Ezio's face. Not only pale, he's turning clammy. "I think you should lie down, Ezio."

"I need to get – to Rosa in Fiore," Ezio grunts, hanging his head and breathing through a new wash of pain on his face.

"Rosa in Fiore – not the hideout?"

"I left Beatrice and Miles in – my sister's care," Ezio says through his teeth and then sighs. "I left in… haste. There were – I left before things were settled. Claudia will likely try and strangle me, if I linger for much longer."

Leonardo leans back looking at him. "Before things were settled? Then Miles…?"

Ezio's throat works as he swallows and then he nods. "Yes."

The silence hangs between them, broken eventually by Salaì clearing his throat. "Anyone want to share the juicy insider knowledge this with lowly assistant? Anyone?" he asks, while bites into a piece of dried plum he'd no doubt gotten from the kitchen while getting the water. "Also, shirt."

Leonardo catches the balled up piece of cloth as Salaì throws it. "Thank you, Salaì," he sighs and looks at Ezio, who grimaces at the shirt, and at the concept of trying to put it on, no doubt.

"Maybe you should lie down after all, at least for a bit," Leonardo says. "My bed is just over there and you need rest."

"Mm- _hmm_ ," Salaì hums meaningfully, arching his eyebrows, and Leonardo throws him a glare.

"I need to not give my sister a reason to stab me in my sleep," Ezio says and takes the shirt from Leonardo. He gives it a look and then with a sigh starts struggling out of what remains of his robes. Leonardo's fingers itch to help him, but Ezio manages it on his own, though wincing and wheezing. He also manages to pull the shirt on after – though it is more than little tight around the shoulders and chest, neither Leonardo or Salaì having such broadness to their frames as Ezio does. The collar of the shirt positively gapes open.

"Mmm," Salaì hums in appreciation behind Leonardo, who quickly looks away.

"Salaì, mind the shop – and bundle those up for me to carry," Leonardo says, motioning to Ezio's things. "I will take Ezio to Rosa in Fiore."

"But the designs," Salaì says with a thoughtful tilt to his head, tracing the open collar downwards. "You need to finish them by tomorrow, Leonardo, or there will be hell to pay. How about _I_ take him and you stay and work?"

"How about _no?_ " Leonardo says flatly, giving him a narrow look. "You will stay here and watch the shop – and I will know if you skip out to gamble too, so don't even think about. Now bundle those up."

Salaì sighs, but does as ordered – taking no particular care to not ogle at Ezio's chest. Leonardo smothers the urge to run his hand over his eyes and hopes against hope that Ezio is too distracted by the pain to notice. In the end though he has Ezio's things wrapped up in the Assassin's white and red cape, and there is Ezio himself, in a shirt too small for him, bracing his waist with his palm.

Well thank god it's late – maybe with it being a little dark outside they won't make too much of a spectacle of themselves.

"Can you walk?" Leonardo asks.

"It was my waist, not my legs," Ezio says in annoyance, but when he tries to get to his feet, his knees shake terribly. "What the devil –"

"Burns, my friend," Leonardo says while quickly catching Ezio's left arm and winding it around his shoulders. "They give the body quite the stir – which is why I wanted you to lie down for a little. Now come on and hope we'll get to Rosa in Fiore before you collapse."

"I'm not going to collapse," Ezio grumbles, even as he leans his weight on Leonardo's shoulder.

"Sure you aren't, my friend. Now come on," Leonardo sighs, supporting Ezio around the back, careful not to put a hand on his wounded waist. "Off we go."

It's mostly stumbling, how they make way from his workshop towards the northern side of the city. The streets are almost dark now – which is why Ezio dared to come in through the front door at all, Leonardo muses and then has to haul Ezio up when the Assassin's steps start faltering a little.

"How did you know I was at my workshop?" Leonardo asks, trying to distract Ezio enough to keep him moving.

"Light," Ezio answers, huffing out a breath. "You don't usually have fire going in your workshop when there's no one there. And the guard wasn't loitering at your doorsteps, which is what they do when you aren't there."

"Dare I ask what happened to the guard?"

"Better not."

"Ah. How was the machine, then?" Leonardo asks and tries to not sound too wistful. "How did it perform? You used it, I assume, seeing that you managed to heat the barrel fire red."

Ezio sighs, and shakes his head. "It was magnificent," he says darkly. "I blew up the other carriages in their store houses, but they got one of them out of there before the place burned. I chased it down on horse back and took control of it – I lost count how many I took down with it when I fled from Alban hills…"

It's both horrifying, to hear the destruction and death his machine had wrought, and exhilarating, to hear how well it worked. Truly a marvel of modern engineering, Leonardo thinks with bittersweet regret. "And you destroyed it."

"Yes," Ezio says and shivers against it. "I have a _burn_ – why am I cold?"

"Imbalance of humours," Leonardo says, half joking as he looks Ezio's face worriedly. He's even paler now, and the clamminess is giving away to cold sweat.

"You don't believe in humours," Ezio grumbles and shivers again.

Leonardo presses his lips tight together. He should've _forced_ Ezio to lie down. He shouldn't have taken him out at all. "We need to hurry. Come on."

They continue down the street and then down a set of stairs, much to Ezio's obvious, pained displeasure. Searching for something else to distract him with, Leonardo turns to what was mentioned before. "So, Miles," he says. "You introduced him to your mother?"

"Yes," Ezio answers with a sigh. "Him and Beatrice – I left them to train with Claudia's girls. Misdirection, blending in, that sort of thing. No one is better at it than a courtesan."

"Oh, I believe you. What I don't believe is that you simply _left_ them there," Leonardo says. "Surely you didn't just drop them on your sister's door like pair of unwanted kittens and then head off to Alban hills."

Ezio doesn't answer immediately.

"Ezio," Leonardo says, looking at him.

"I introduced them," Ezio says evasively. "I talked with Claudia, shared our suspicion. And then Miles started crying at the sight of my mother and – _then_ I left."

Leonardo takes moment to consider that. "Your mother is a formidable woman," he comments slowly, a little confusedly. "But making a man cry at the sight of her, that's a new one."

"You're telling me," Ezio says, obviously uncomfortable. He shudders again, powerful enough to almost dislodge his arm from around Leonardo's shoulders. "I feel faint," he admits quietly.

"We're almost there," Leonardo says through the mounting worry and Ezio lets out a grunt as Leonardo hauls his arm higher over his shoulder. "And next time, you'll lay down before we go anywhere."

"Next time… when anything of yours goes red… I will jump into first river I see," Ezio grumbles, his head hanging.

Leonardo sighs. "You would, wouldn't you," he mutters and then looks up. Rosa in Fiore is just on the other side of the square. "Come on, my friend. Only a little further."

Rosa in Fiore is in full bloom that night, judging by the sounds of music and revelry coming from inside. The brothel's every window is lit with fire light and it looks warm and lively – they must have a full house, or near as. Leonardo hesitates over the door for a moment  – to take a wounded man into the midst of the busiest hour of a brothel doesn't seem terribly wise, but what on earth is he going to do – take Ezio back when the man is on the brink of collapse?

Ezio takes the choice from him by reaching with his free arm and banging his first couple of times against the door. It takes a moment for anyone to answer and open the door – it takes only one glance for the prostitute to call out to "Madame!" into the house in alarm before drawing them in hurriedly.

It takes effort to not let Ezio flat out collapse.

"Ezio," Claudia is there almost immediately, catching her brother from the other side – and then flinching back when Ezio lets out a gasp. "Oh lord – what happened?"

"He's got a burn," Leonardo says while looking for a seat to ease Ezio on. "And he's about to faint because he refused to take a moment to lie down and rest. There, let's get him to that chair over there."

"I'm fine," Ezio slurs, even as he lists to the side. "It's just – a little burn –"

"It's half again the size of my palm – it's not exactly _little_ , my friend," Leonardo says firmly and together with Claudia he eases Ezio down. He all but collapses onto the seat and Leonardo has to pin his shoulders into the wall to keep him from tilting over. "Now breathe in and out, nice and slow –"

The customers of the Rosa in Fiore are all staring now, the prostitutes leaning in curious as well – few of them taking moment to appreciate the unfortunate tightness of Ezio's borrowed shirt, even at time such as this. Claudia notices it too, and then makes a quick motion. "Clear the hall," she snaps. "It's a nice night out – take some lanterns and go watch the stars."

While the girls start leading the customers off, much to their annoyance, Leonardo tries to keep Ezio upright. He's now, in safety, losing consciousness. "Come on, my friend, don't do this to me now, after all the trouble I went through to get you here – Claudia, do you have smelling salts here?"

Claudia nods and quickly turn away, to catch one of her girls. "Doretta, get the smelling salts, and maybe some wine, if we have any warmed up – "

"Yes, Madame, right away – "

"What's going on?"

It's a male voice, another customer Leonardo thinks at first – except it's familiar. Then Miles da Firenze is there, at his side. "What happened?" he asks while grabbing Ezio by his listing chin and tilting his head back. He looks at Ezio's face, his sluggish eyelids, and then tugs one of them back up with his thumb, to see Ezio's eye. "He's in shock," Miles says sharply and presses his fingers to Ezio's neck, digging them into soft flesh at the side – where the big neck vein pulses.

"What are you doing – no don't, he has a burn –" Leonardo says quickly, and Miles stops in the motion of hauling Ezio up. "We only just got him to sit down!"

"He needs to _lie_ down and he needs to get warm," Miles says, tugging at Ezio's shirt to check where the burn is. Then, in a strangest twist of his body, he manoeuvres Ezio's listing body forward and then simply _rolls_ the man onto his shoulders. "Someone clear me a space by the fire."

"Miles, Leonardo said he has a _burn_ –" Claudia says sharply.

"Now, _please_ ," Miles says and stands, holding Ezio's leg with one hand and his wrist with another – with Ezio's form supported, easy as anything, across his shoulders. Leonardo stares at the young man for a moment, astonished by the easy feat of strength. Then he bounces to his feet, worried that the move might agitate Ezio's injury – but Miles is already moving with long strides towards the fireplace.

Claudia hesitates a moment and the hurries over to clear out the space in front of the fireplace, just in time for Miles to reach it and to roll Ezio off his shoulders, careful but hasty. Ezio lands on the floor, listless, with Miles hand on the back of his head until it reaches the floor. Then Miles turns away, to reach for a nearby chair – he drags it over, careless of the scrape it makes on the floor, and then without further ado he lifts Ezio's feet on it.

Leonardo stares, confused at first. "What are you…" he starts to ask, before what he sees forms into a concept in his head.

From his studies in anatomy, back when he had time for such joyful activities as dissection, he knows how the blood flows in the body, the same blood that reaches one's hands reaches one's feet, pumped to and fro by the heart. And everyone knows that loosing too much blood will kill a man – but Ezio hasn't lost blood. Still, by lifting his feet, Miles is doing something to that incredible circulation of blood within the body – somehow, it will help.

While Leonardo has this realisation, Miles tilts Ezio's head back a little and then touches his throat, pressing two fingers there for a moment, closing his eyes. He's counting, Leonardo realises, counting the beats of Ezio's heart.

Miles lets out a breath and then turns to examine the bandaged wound.

"What are you doing?" Claudia asks, confused. "Miles, explain this."

"I don't know how," the young man answers distractedly and peers into the bandages. "Yeah, that's a burn," he mutters and look is up. He sighs, resigned. "What did you put on it?" he asks as if he doesn't really want to know.

Leonardo shakes his head, confused and _fascinated_. There is something here, something he hadn't seen before. "Nothing – I only washed the wound with water and removed the fabric stuck to it."

"You didn't put any ointments on it?" Miles asks and starts unwinding the bandages – or trying to. With Ezio lying down he can't manage it, and after a moment give up and takes out a knife – Leonardo winces a little at the waste of good gauze.

"I put nothing on the wound; I have yet to find any I know to be truly effective and not make things worse. I recommended him to use aloe but that is all," Leonardo says and looks at him, fascinated. "You know medicine?" Ezio's colour is already improving – and it's simply by having his feet lifted up. "Why does lifting his legs make him look better, how does it work?"

Miles doesn't answer, peering at the wound, tugging at the edges of it.

"Miles," Claudia says through clenched teeth. "What's wrong with my brother?"

The young man looks up. "He has a burn," he says.

"I can _see_ that – but why did he _faint_?" the Madame of Rosa in Fiore asks, with careful patience. "Was it from pain? Ezio can stand pain."

"It was because he has a burn and he went into shock," Miles says and looks Ezio over. "It's a burn so it'll be, uh, what was it, hypovolemic shock. A loss of blood plasma, that's…" he hesitates. "Not something I can fix with what I have – but he'll need salt once he wakes up. Something salty to eat, drink – salty broth, maybe, that could work. Right now we just have to keep him warm and keep his blood pressure from dropping further."

"Blood pressure," Leonardo repeats, wondering. That's it. _Yes_ that's it. But blood _plasma_ , what on earth…?

"I don't know what any of that means," Claudia says, frustrated. "He needs a salty broth? I'm – surely he needs a doctor."

"Yeah, and _leeches_ ," Miles mutters and rolls his eyes. "Because blood loss will help now."

Leonardo's lips part at that.

"Don't get catty with me, Nephew," Claudia snaps at him. "And _explain_. What do we do?"

Miles blows out a breath and examines Ezio's wound again. He makes a face, thinking about it and then sighing. "You have any honey in the kitchen?" he asks then.

"You said he needs salt," Claudia says, impatient.

"He needs salty things to _eat_ once he wakes up – he needs honey for the wound."

"You'd put honey on a wound? But it's a burn – surely, pomade of aloe – "

Miles stares at her for a moment. "Yes," he says then and nods emphatically. "That'll work. But also honey, please. We'll do both."

Claudia hesitates for a moment and then throws her hands up. "I'll trust you with this, Nephew – but you are explaining all of this later."

"And if I can't?" Miles shouts after her as Claudia marches off.

"Then you can invent something halfway believable!"

Leonardo blinks after Claudia as she hurries off and then looks at Miles, who has gone back to investigating the wound. "You cut the cloth out," Miles says then and looks up. "Why?"

"I might not be a doctor, but I know enough to know that foreign objects in wounds are rarely beneficial to healing," Leonardo says and rests a hand on his hip. "Why honey?" he asks, curious.

"It's… purifying?" Miles offers uncertainly and thinks about it. "It will cleanse the impurities of the wound," he then says.

Leonardo arches a brow at that. "How?"

Miles looks a little at loss at that. "I don't know how to explain it," he says with a sigh then and looks does. "It'll work though. If nothing got too deep into the wound, it'll keep it from getting infected. Hopefully."

"Hmm," Leonardo agrees, thoughtful. He's heard of some foreign uses of honey in wound healing but he hadn't put any more stock in their usage, as very few doctors he knew used them. Honey was a cooking ingredient, not a remedy.

But then most doctors he knew also subscribed to using _lead_ as a remedy and Leonardo had yet to see single person who had been truly benefited from lead remedies. In his experience, they tended to kill faster than they cured.

Claudia returns soon with the pomade of aloe and small jar of honey, along with Madonna Maria close at her heel – and Beatrice Simone who is carrying with her some clean bandages. Maria looks over Ezio, lying dead to the world in too tight a shirt pushed up to reveal the red and white and blistering wound at his side. Her face twitches in pain and then she turns to the young assassin novice.

"Miles," Maria says. "Do you know what you're doing?" It's said with some seriousness and Miles looks up from the wound he'd been examining.

"Yes," the young man says. "I promise. I _know_ this."

Maria nods and then kneels down. "Alright," she says. "Go on, then. Help your father."

Miles da Firenze makes a face at that and then gets to work. Leonardo sits down to watch as the young man – Ezio's _son_ – tends to his friend's wound, applying the honey and the aloe to it in careful, measured swipes. He never touches the wound directly, Leonardo notices – only indirectly, and preferably only with either the honey or the aloe.

Blood pressure – and what was it he said, hypo… hypovolemic? Thinking back to the previous odd word he learned from the young man – airplane, it's roots in Latin and Greek – Leonardo tries to untangle it. Is it the same, then? Greek _hypo_ means under, and volemic might come from Latin _volumin_ … which means a roll? Under… roll? Rolling under? Or rolling over? Miles _had_ rolled Ezio over and onto the ground to help him and it seems to be helping too.

Ancient words, Leonardo muses while watching the young man do his healing. Ancient knowledge from those that came before, too, perhaps. Like the Pythagorean symbols not stuck in Leonardo's head, there are words stuck in Miles', it seems.

Leonardo looks at the young man's face, so much like Ezio's as he bends over his work seriously, his scarred lips pressed to a firm line.

So they were right, the young man had used the Apple, and divined knowledge from it. But how much, and for what purpose? And what terrible things could _he_ make, if forced to it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ezio is a champion of Dealing With Things and Leonardo gets long chapter because he's Leonardo.  
> Things I learned while writing this chapter.  
> 1\. Slug slime is antiseptic, antibacterial and antibiotic and apparently cure all for everything  
> 2\. Aloe vera was indeed a thing. It's a mediterranean plant. Makes sense.  
> 3\. While Leonardo knew about circulatory system and discovered that heart had valves and stuff, Ibn al-Nafis beat him to the punch back in 1200 about pulmonary circulation of blood.  
> 4\. Apparently spider webs are anticeptic  
> 5\. The degree classification for burns was invented 1510 by a french barber surgeon Ambroise Paré  
> 6\. Leeches actually have anticoagulant in their saliva which actually would make them useful for some things... but not for most things.
> 
> Also reason why Desmond is doing medical stuff is because I imagine first-aid training is basically mandatory at the Farm and it's useful enough information to know outside it too. Also he worked at high class bar, might've been a good hiring point.


	13. Chapter 13

If this was the modern times, Ezio would be in an IV drip right about now, getting saline pumped into him by the pound. Even the Farm had had equipment for it – hell, Desmond had had a kit for administering saline at Bad Weather, just in case. You never knew when some rich beauty went and keeled over due not so healthy diets or whatever. IV is bit harder to manage in the 16th century though. Desmond isn't sure if hollow needles even are a thing yet, and the idea of trying to find clear enough water to make saline solution out of it – saline solution which didn't _kill_ the person it was given to – makes him shudder a little.

Best he can do for Ezio really is to keep his temperature up and his feet elevated enough that his blood pressure doesn't drop to the pits – and make sure someone fills up the man with enough salt and anything passing for electrolytes afterwards to get his levels back up. Not that it's easy to tell how his levels even are.

Pity he'd gotten rid of his watch first thing – and no one hadn't managed to fish out of the Tiber River either, it seems. It would've had a heart rate monitor though. Not the best one ever, but it would've been better than trying to figure out Ezio's heart rate by feel alone.

"What can you tell from that?" Leonardo da Vinci asks, watching Desmond feel at Ezio's neck. "You're feeling for the beat of his heart – what does it tell you?"

"That he's not getting worse," Desmond says, glancing up and then down again, pressing his lips together. "And hopefully he'll wake up soon." Really, he would feel better if Ezio _had_ woken up already, but he hadn't, and despite Claudia's suggestion Desmond hadn't let them use smelling salts. Ammonia inhalation is the last thing Ezio needs when his blood levels must already be bit too low to provide his body the oxygen it needs.

Leonardo nods, looking fascinated. "Before you said, blood pressure," he says then, stroking at his beard thoughtfully. "Blood in body is pressurised, then, like liquid in a bottle."

Desmond shrugs, shifting uneasily where he's sitting beside Ezio. Though the floor by the fireplace isn't the most comfortable place, it's warm and with Ezio being in danger of going hypothermic, it's better for him to lie there than in one of the cooler bedrooms. It had made bandaging the burn a bit of a bitch, but Desmond had managed it and hopefully, _hopefully_ it wouldn't get infected. But fuck it, if it did, Desmond is perfectly willing of fucking up history of medicine completely by whipping up some mould sludge penicillin if he had to.

This hadn't happened in the past. Desmond knows that much for sure – he remembers the _missions_ for Leonardo's war machines and Ezio had gotten through pretty much all of them unscathed, remembers how tricky getting the full synchronisation out of them had been. Ezio definitely hadn't limped back with severe burns from any of them.

Somehow, this is Desmond's fault. Somehow, he altered the events just enough that Ezio got injured in a mission he shouldn't have.

"Of course," da Vinci murmurs, pacing the floor beside Ezio. "It makes sense – that is why a wound _bleeds_ , there is a pressure exerted onto the circulatory system from inside. By the beating of the heart, yes? It creates a current and of course, _pressure_. It's a closed system, and blood flows up hill as well as down within the body – how else would to happen, except by the force of inner pressure? Brilliant!"

Desmond looks up at the man hesitantly, wondering. How badly did he change the future _there_ , in giving da Vinci the idea of blood pressure?

"But what does the blood do, what is the purpose of it?" the painter asks and turns to Desmond. "It has an important, _vital_ function in the body; no creature can survive with its blood removed – but why?"

Desmond shakes his head, helpless at the face of the man's excitement. It's a bit too early for cell biology probably. Or actually it would be hematology in this case? He doesn't really know – he's no doctor, all he has to go on is the first-aid training he got as a kid and what he's been forced to learn since by avoiding hospitals like the plague.

Leonardo lets his silence pass. "Why salt?" the man asks interestedly. "Why do you want Ezio to drink salt, how does it affect things? It will fix the issue of the – the shock, and the shock is the cause – or is causing? The issue of blood pressure?"

Desmond shakes his head, sighing. He's not actually sure if salt will help, digested, but it probably won't make things _worse_ if drank in moderation. Saline would help – fluids given intravenously would help. But he can't do that.

"How does salt affect blood pressure?" Leonardo asks, excited and fascinated.

"Question of the centuries," Desmond mutters and looks down as Ezio lets out a small grunt. "He's coming to," he says – and Claudia who had been sitting by her books quickly stands up, as does Maria on the couch near by.

Leonardo quickly joins him by Ezio's prone body, kneeling down beside the Master Assassin. Ezio inhales and then sighs. "Why am I on the floor?" he murmurs, his voice rough and slurring slightly.

"You fainted, my friend," Leonardo says, and then adds almost giddily; "Because of drop of blood pressure!"

"What?" Ezio asks confusedly, peering at him. Then he looks at Desmond and his face tightens a little. "Miles," he says, his voice even.

"Master," Desmond says, noncommittal, and then puts a hand on his shoulder. "Don't get up; you'll just pass out again. Just lie there for a moment," he orders and checks Ezio's pulse again. Really, a heart monitor would be nice.

"What are talking – what are you doing?" Ezio asks, leaning away from the touch.

"He's checking your blood pressure," Leonardo says and Desmond sighs. The man is not going to let that go, is he?

"Miles helped you recover, Brother, after you fainted," Claudia says and stands over Ezio, arms folded. "And you need better armour."

"How are you, my son?" Maria asks. "Miles?"

"He'll live," Desmond answers. "Though he'll probably feel shaky for a while."

"He is right here," Ezio lets out an aborted sigh of frustration at that and then lays his head back down on the floor, wincing and rubbing at his side. Then he frowns and looks down – over his own body and the bandages and at his feet. "What the devil –"

"It's for a purpose, leave them," Desmond says and then looks up. "About that broth…"

"I will get it," Maria says and rests a hand for a moment on his shoulder. "Well done."

Desmond shakes his head at that – it's just basic first-aid – but says nothing. He looks down at Ezio instead, taking in his colour. He looks better than he did when he arrived, though his colour is still pretty pale. "You need to take it easy for couple of days," Desmond says. "Bed rest and plenty of food."

"I didn't know you were a doctor, Miles," Ezio says, uncomfortable while he shifts his feet with a grimace. "Why are my feet on a chair? This position is humiliating."

"It's helping you," Desmond says firmly.

"It helps the blood drain down from them to the rest of your body," Leonardo says, stroking his beard again. "That is it, isn't it?" he asks, turning to Desmond. "That is why you lifted them up – for drainage."

"I guess that's way to put it," Desmond sighs, not really wanting to get into it right now. At least the concept of _fluid flows easier down hill_ is easy enough to grasp, and doesn't need theory on gravity to support it.

Ezio makes a face at that. "If the blood on my feet is an issue, then do I not require a blood letting?" he asks confusedly, and rubs at his waist.

Desmond rolls his eyes and checks his pulse again – maybe it's dropping again and the man is going delirious - while Leonardo lets out a laugh. "I doubt that's the issue here, my friend. I think it's rather the opposite."

"Ugh," Ezio answers and closes his eyes. Then he grunts and makes to sit up, kicking at the chair to get it from under his feet. " _Enough_ of this – Leonardo, help me stand up."

Leonardo looks at Desmond. Desmond sighs. "Well, he'll be more agreeable when he faints again."

"How likely is that to happen?" Leonardo asks, fascinated.

"Going from having his feet elevated to going up right?" Desmond asks and considers. "It's pretty much guaranteed."

"I say we let him," Claudia says, folding her arms. "It'll give my girls something to talk about for days on end, the great Assassin swooning like sickly maiden all over again."

Ezio sighs and lays his head back down again. "I'm surrounded by nags," he grumbles and looks to the side when Maria returns, carrying with her a tray. "Mother, please speak sense to these people."

"I'm afraid they're the ones being sensible," she says and kneels down beside him slowly, careful not to spill anything. With her she has a bowl of murky liquid that smells faintly of spices and meat. "Will this do, Miles?"

"What is it?" Desmond asks. "Or what's in it, rather?"

"It is chicken broth – I meant to make Tortellini in Brodo tomorrow," she says and considers the broth. "I boiled chicken with carrots, onion and some celery. It also has parsley and salt – it is quite salty, so I thought it might do."

"It sounds good," Desmond says and looks at Ezio. "Drink up. It'll help."

"How am I going to drink it when I'm lying down on the floor?" Ezio asks irritably.

"You can sit up a little – but keep your feet where they are. Here," Desmond offers then when Ezio only manages a pained grunt and wince, trying to sit up in the position. "Let me."

With Leonardo's help Desmond eases Ezio into half way sitting position, not high enough to put his head above his feet, but high enough to drink without choking. Ezio is still grumbling irritably when Maria holds the broth bowl for him to drink from, but ganged up as he is, the Assassin does drink with only minimal complaints. And he obviously isn't a stranger to bracing through his medicine, since he drinks all of it in one go too.

"Satisfied?" Ezio asks, wiping at his mouth.

"Utterly thrilled," Desmond says and tests Ezio's pulse again. It's staying pretty level, even in the half seated position, but his skin is still a bit clammy. "I think you can manage sitting, but I'd rather not risk it."

"I feel _fine_ ," Ezio grumbles, casting him an uncomfortable sideways look. "It's just a burn. I only fainted because I was tired – I've had plenty of rest now, haven't I?"

"Ezio, you were out less than an hour, that's not rest, that's barely a break," Leonardo says.

Ezio frowns a little at that and then lets himself be laid down on the floor again. After moment he shakes his head. "Can I at least get a pillow?" he asks sullenly, and Claudia supplies one with rolled eyes. "Thank you," the Assassin mutters and shoves it under his head.

"How long until the broth has an affect?" Maria asks, putting the bowl away again.

Desmond shrugs. "With food and rest he'll be fine in time," he says and then pushes back away from Ezio a little, giving him room to breathe. "The burn will take longer to heal. Couple of weeks at least."

Ezio frowns at him from the floor, looking him over. For a moment he looks like he wants to ask something, but he bites his tongue on it and turns to look at Claudia instead. "Where is Beatrice?"

"Asleep," Claudia says, folding her arms. "It's past midnight, Brother. Your timing, as always, is impeccable. How did you get such a burn?"

"Blame Leonardo," Ezio mutters and closes his eyes.

Leonardo twitches nervously as the Auditore women turn their attention to him with laser sharp focus. "My machine," he says awkwardly. "It was perhaps not designed to be perfectly safe. It was a war machine. It was not my intention for Ezio to get hurt by it – I had hoped he could destroy them all before they were ever used but…"

"Using it ended up being necessary," Ezio says and shakes his head. "It's been destroyed now, so never mind that. How did my students do?"

Desmond lets out a dubious snort at that, and Claudia arches her brows, unimpressed. "Oh, we have many things to talk about, Brother, many things," she says. "But your students did well. Miles took to everything we had to teach him with no trouble, but I want to keep Beatrice for a while longer. She still has… difficulties with our arts."

Desmond looks up to her, worried. Beatrice had issues, sure, but he's not so sure she'd be comfortable being left _alone_ in Rosa in Fiore. It's uncomfortable enough for her in company.

Claudia spots him looking and smiles faintly. "No need to look so worried, Nephew. She'll be in good hands here," she says and turns back to Ezio. "The girl has some confidence issues, which I think I have a solution for, but so as long as she has Miles here to hide behind she'll never step up properly herself."

Ezio mouths the word _nephew_ soundlessly and then shakes his head. "I'm sure you know best, Claudia," he says then and looks to Leonardo. "Should you not return to your workshop? Salaì said you had a design to finish."

"Alas, I do, but I think I can avoid it for a little longer – I only have to present it around noon tomorrow, so I have the whole morning left to finish it," Leonardo says with a sigh. "It is already complete in my mind, mores the pity. All is left for me to write it all down."

"Another war machine?" Claudia asks, casting a look his way.

"I'm afraid so, Madame," Leonardo agrees, bowing his head a little. "I do what I can to hinder their building and introduce flaws in their design, but I'm afraid I cannot quite refuse the work. I'm not given much of a choice."

"And no one will blame you for it," Ezio says firmly. "Borgia's crimes and cruelty aren't your doing, Leonardo."

"Perhaps not, but I enable their growth," Leonardo says with a sigh and sits down onto a near by chair. "And the longer I can delay from it, the better for me. So if you don't mind, I think I'll stay here a moment longer."

"You are always welcome here, Leonardo, never doubt it," Maria says kindly, sympathetically, and sits beside him. "I have missed your works dearly. Do you have any time to paint, these days?"

"Not as much as I used to," Leonardo says regretfully. "Cesare Borgia keeps me quite busy."

While they talk about Leonardo's paintings, Desmond looks down on Ezio, who meets his eyes almost hesitantly. Claudia looks over them and then turns to join Maria and Leonardo in their discussion, leaving Desmond and Ezio in awkward, uncomfortable silence on the floor by the fireplace.

"You know medicine," Ezio says after a moment, resting a hand on his bandaged waist. "I wondered."

Desmond swallows. "You did?"

"When I first searched for the Vatican assassin, I talked to a doctor you saw. He said you performed a treatment on your own wound," the Master Assassin says. "He expected you to come back with purification. It was your arm, wasn't it? How did it heal?"

Desmond tugs his right sleeve up, rolling it past his elbow. The cut is still there on his arm and it stings like mother-fuck when ever something presses on it, but it's healing. "It was shallow," he says. "I just cleaned it up at the doctor's stall, that's all. It wasn't that strange."

Ezio looks at the scrape and then looks up to him. "Cleaned it with stomach medicine," he says.

Desmond shrugs, not sure how gin is supposed to _ease_ the stomach, except maybe making it easier to handle whatever was wrong with it in the first place. Hard not to be worried about your gut rotting when you're drunk. "It also cleans impurities," he says. "It's just not known for it, I guess."

"Hmm," Ezio answers, watching his face. "And this?" he motions at his elevated feet. "How do you know about this?"

Desmond sighs and shakes his head, looking away. "Just do," he says and rests his elbows on his bent knees. "Can't it just be a thing I know without me having to justify how I know it? Why do I have to explain everything? You don't have to explain your abilities."

"My abilities come with a history of _training_ , and from a history of people similar to me," Ezio says plainly and motions at his feet. "This I know nothing about, and I doubt anyone else does either."

Desmond says nothing to that, hanging his head a little. Then he looks away, towards Maria and Claudia – now his supposed Grandmother and Aunt. They are pretending not to be listening in as they talk with Leonardo about his paintings and his work with the Borgia. Leonardo isn't oblivious to it either, glancing Ezio's way every so often worriedly.

It kind of hurts, to see it – the hopeless one-sided love Leonardo has had for Ezio for as long as the two have known each other. Leonardo is terrible at hiding too, carrying his heart in his sleeve all too openly, the poor bastard.

"Miles," Ezio says and Desmond looks down to him. "I'm just trying to understand. I didn't expect you."

"Well I didn't expect this either, so we're in a same boat there," Desmond sighs and leans back a little. "I just want to help. Why can't that be enough?"

Ezio watches him for a moment seriously and then looks up at the ceiling instead. "It is enough," he says then. "Now if you would help me stand up, that would be splendid. My back is starting to ache."

"Only if you're going to go to bed and _sleep_ ," Desmond says firmly.

Ezio sighs and closes his eyes for a moment. "Yes alright," he gives in. "If Claudia can bear me here for the night, then yes… I'll sleep. Now help me up, will you?"

Desmond hesitates for a moment and then moves to ease the char from under Ezio's leg, setting his feet down slowly to avoid giving him any further shocks. "Slowly," he says. "And tell me if you start feeling faint."

"Yes, yes," Ezio grunts and then, with Desmond's help, he sits up. It doesn't take more than that to make the man obviously feel woozy, and while the others quickly stands up to help, Desmond winds an arm around Ezio's shoulders.

"He's going to bed," Desmond says.

"Right this way," Maria says with a relieved sigh, and with Leonardo quickly coming to Ezio's other side just in case, they help the wounded Assassin to the back rooms and there to bed. Ezio collapses onto the bed with a pained wheeze and sigh – and he's out like a light before Desmond can even get a pillow under his feet.

"Oh, my reckless son," Maria sighs while tucking a blanket over her son. "Running about like this in your age – still thinking you heal like you did twenty years ago. You're not as young as you once were, Ezio."

"Don't let him hear you say that," Desmond laughs a little and checks Ezio's pulse again. "He'll feel better in few days. He'll need food once he wakes up – and plenty to drink. And not wine," he says quickly. "Water that's been boiled clean, that'll do better."

"I'll make sure he gets it," Maria says and sits on Ezio's bed side, reaching over to brush a stray lock of dark hair from the Assassin's eyes.

Desmond and Leonardo hesitate over them for a moment and then, with Claudia clearing her throat by the door, they turn to leave. "Some wine, gentlemen?" she offers. "To brace us through the night."

"That would be lovely, thank you," Leonardo says. "But surely you have customers to tend to?"

"The customers are being tended to – it's fine," Claudia says with a wave of her hand. "Family matters more. Come on – there might still be some bread and cheese left too, if you're hungry. Baked fresh this morning by Mother."

"I'll certainly not say no to Madonna Maria's baking," Leonardo says.

Desmond follows them to the kitchen, silent and worried. The timeline he knew is changing already. Of course he knew things would change, but… but he hadn't expected it to happen like this. He hadn't even _tried_ to make actual proper changes yet – nothing that actually _affected_ historical events. If something like Ezio's missions is now going differently, what else might be different?

The kitchen is still blissfully warm, with the fire in the oven going on day and night, and there lingers a smell of the broth Maria had heated up for Ezio – the pot is still on the stone oven top.

"Get the bread and cheese, will you, Miles?" Claudia says, and together they set up a later night snack on the kitchen table, Claudia pouring them some wine while Desmond cuts the bread and the cheese.

"What a night," Claudia says with a sigh and sips the wine, leaning onto the table with her elbows, no hint of her usual ladylike behaviour in sight. "And three customers tried to skirt paying too. Tell me honestly, Miles – how bad was it, Ezio's fainting?"

"I think he would've recovered on his own in time, if left to lie where ever he collapsed," Desmond admits. "Happy thing about collapsing – it tends to put the head level with the feet, so it actually helps. But he'll be better off now."

"And the burn?"

"It'll scar, but it won't put an end to his career as Assassin," Desmond shrugs. "It will ache, though – unless it was deep enough that he lost the sense of touch on it. Which he might've."

"Well, at least now we have proof that damn thing put something useful into your head," Claudia murmurs. "You should write this down too, Miles. A Medicine Codex. It would actually be helpful knowledge."

Desmond gives her a look. "And what I write isn't?" he asks, feigning insult.

Claudia waves a dismissive hand at it. "Not to the common people. I used to faint a lot when I was a child – I certainly would have liked to know such a cure for it back then."

"Well… it depends on the type of fainting on whether it works or not," Desmond mutters. "Not all faints are created equal."

"And that too would have been helpful to know."

Well, she's not wrong – she usually isn't. Knowledge of basic medicinal practices that are common sense in the future and completely unknown in these times, it would probably be helpful. Just stuff like cleaning wounds with hard alcohol and washing hands before treatment would probably save millions of lives along the line. And hell, he's already changing history – what are few more things to add into that.

"I'm not really expert in this stuff," Desmond mutters. "I just know a little bit." Wound cleaning and dressing, putting in an IV, CPR, Heimlich manoeuvre, recovery position, dealing with shock… basic first-aid stuff.

Actually… that's probably better than what most doctors know in these times, isn't it? And at least what he knows is accurate scientifically proven stuff.

Leonardo watches them with interest, scenting the wine idly. "This knowledge you have," he says. "It comes from the Apple, doesn't it? The Apple of Eden."

Desmond looks up at that, taking in the man's expression. "I guess," he says then and reaches for a slice of bread. "Don't… ask me to explain how I know, I can't really. I just know things."

Leonardo nods and his expression is knowing. "I handled the Apple too, for a time," he admits and turns his attention to the wine glass. "It emblazoned images into my mind I haven't been able to rid myself of since, and can hardly explain. The knowledge I gained was largely destructive, however. Medicine seems… kinder."

"It wasn't only medicine he got," Claudia scoffs and nods at Desmond. "Show him."

Desmond hesitates. Showing the Aviation Codex to Leonardo da Vinci of all people… Well it had been the plan all along, to get the thing into the hands of people who could use it – but… "It's not finished yet," he says, uncomfortable.

"Miles," Claudia says impatiently.

With a sigh, Desmond digs out the Codex and hands it over. "It's incomplete," he warns the man. "It's just the preface, really, don't… don't expect much."

"I expect nothing, my friend," Leonardo assures him with a smile, not all alike the smiles he gives Ezio. "I have no notion what this even is. I assure you – I cannot possibly be disappointed."

"Yeah, sure," Desmond says awkwardly and then watches with mounting anxiety as Leonardo opens the book. He sees the moment the title dawn's on Leonardo, his face falls slack with surprise for a moment and how his eyes narrow with concentration and he leans in.

It's strange, seeing the man through his own eyes. Ezio's view on Leonardo was kind of… complicated, especially towards the later years of their friendship. Leonardo had remained Ezio's closest friend until the very end and Ezio had always been very fond of the man – but it had been a convoluted sort of fondness at times.

That's just what unrequited love does – it makes things a little awkward.

Leonardo doesn't look like the embodiment of lost potential and uneasy nostalgia, though – there is none of Ezio's guilt painting him now. Well, there is little, because that bittersweet regret is part of Ezio and so it's part of Desmond… but it's not like Desmond really shares Ezio's hang ups with Leonardo's _inclinations_. And so, Leonardo doesn't look like that weird mixture of unearthly and all _too_ earthly Ezio sees him as.

He just looks like a man in his late forties, with skin marked with splotches of dark freckles and years of hard thinking, well cared hair framing his face and beard carefully tended and soft grown over long. He's handsome, under it all, well dressed and perfectly fashionable, something Ezio had been aware of but had rarely thought too closely about. He's very human and very real, Desmond thinks, with good looks and flaws and all.

…and at the same time _Leonardo da Vinci_ also one of the most famous figures of the renaissance and the painter of some of the most famous and expensive works in known history and he's currently reading Desmond's terrible handwriting.

Desmond swallows, nervously waiting for the verdict as Leonardo leafs through the pages, his eyes intent, his face set in rapt attention. Claudia is watching him over her wine glass, her eyebrows arched with some amusement and Desmond wonders if it's too late to run to bed.

"This is…" Leonardo straightens up and exhales slowly, lifting his eyes. Desmond tries not to flinch back at the look of wonder on the man's face. "This is everything I was missing. Aerodynamics. _Airfoils_!"

"That's more to it – I'm not finished yet," Desmond says. "There's lift and drag and thrust and – and lot of other things I haven't yet written down."

"But you know everything, don't you," Leonardo says and then leans closer. "They put all of it into your head, everything to make my flying machine _perfect_."

Desmond opens his mouth, closes it, and then nods. "Yeah," he says because – well, _they_ did, didn't they? "Yeah. But it's not enough, it's – it's missing things, things we don't have yet," he says then quickly, before the man can get head of himself. "The machine alone can't produce its own lift – it needs _thrust_. It needs –" an _engine_ and turbines and propellers… "– some force behind it, pushing it. Or another, dragging it."

"Yes, _yes_ , I thought so – I managed it the same with air currents with my flying machine. A fire below creating a column of rising hot air," Leonardo says excitedly. "It was just enough to give it a temporary rise – it wasn't elegant but it worked."

"Bit dangerous, though," Desmond comments, thinking about all the nose dives he'd taken with the thing in the Animus.

"Oh, very, but it worked," Leonardo says and looks down at Desmond's sketches on the wing designs that worked as airfoils. "If I'd known this – hollow wings, shaped like this, oh. It could have flown so much farther."

"I don't know about that – from what I could tell from the model, your machine was too heavy," Desmond admits and scratches the back of his head. "Too many struts on the thing, and the guns on the nose made it front heavy."

"But without all that _nonsense_ ," Leonardo says and sighs almost wistfully. "Without the weapons, without the extra weight, and with this… oh, I could've made it fly _beautifully_."

He could've too, Desmond thinks, staring at him with weird sort of nostalgia.

Claudia looks between them, her brows arched. "Well, I knew you two would get along like house on fire," she says darkly. "Miles, you do know what Leonardo's machines are for, don't you? You know the danger that lies in them?"

Desmond glances at her and sighs. Leonardo does the same and together they look at the Codex, and all the things it represents.

Desmond came back in time to spread this knowledge – and he _can't_. So as long as the Borgia are in control and Cesare wants more war machines… aviation would only be used for war. But then it always would be, there's no way getting around it. Flying and warfare went hand in hand, always had and always would. It was far too efficient to be avoided. And suppressing the knowledge would only delay the inevitable – and Desmond has a far _worse_ inevitable he's trying to prevent, far further down the line.

There would always be war and war machines. All Desmond cared was that there'd still be an _earth_ and _humans_ around to have those wars.

Claudia is searching his face. "So you see why this is dangerous. You see why you need to keep this a secret, don't you?"

"I know," he says and reaches for the Aviation Codex, closing it with a snap. "I just don't care."

"You don't _care_ ," Claudia repeats while Leonardo looks up sharply.

"There will always be ways to misuse machines and they always _will be_ misused," Desmond says and taps his fist against the Codex. "That's no reason to stamp progress or stop inventing things."

Claudia presses her lips together, frowning a little, while Leonard stares at Desmond, searching his face seriously.

Desmond looks at him. "The benefits will ultimately outweigh the danger," he says firmly and then shakes his head and looks at Claudia. "I'm not stupid though – if I go sprouting about this stuff, the Church will have me hanged for heresy. But one day…" he trails off and shrugs.

Leonardo's eyes flick between Desmond's eyes and then he smiles. He's tired and weary under his freckles, under the beard, but his smile is still youthful and radiant. "One day," he agrees. "Perhaps we'll work together on it."

"Yeah, maybe. That would be… good," Desmond agrees and his shoulders slump a little. Oh, God, _please_. He can't do this on his own.

"In the meanwhile – once you finish that…" Leonardo nods at the Codex. "I would very much like a copy of it. And any other writings you ever produce."

Claudia looks between them in disbelief. "This is dangerous forbidden knowledge," she says flatly. "And you want to share it?"

"Knowledge is meant to be shared," Desmond says and looks at Leonardo. "Don't you agree?"

"Ah, you're a man after my own heart," Leonardo says smiling.

Oh, you have no idea, Desmond thinks, while Claudia throws up her hands in defeat.

"I give up, the men in my life are all fools," she says and drains her wine glass. "I'll leave you to your heresy. Good night, gentlemen. And Miles, try not to get burned at the stake before morning."

"I'm sure I can manage that," Desmond laughs. "Good night Claudia."

"Good night, Nephew," she says heads off – taking the bottle with her as she goes.

"There went the wine," Leonardo comments.

"Hm," Desmond agrees. "Luckily for us, I know where the bottles are kept. Would you like another drink, Maestro?"

"I shouldn't, I do have work to do in the morning…" Leonardo trails away, considering the Codex between them. He scratches at his beard and then smiles. "But perhaps one glass… to Ezio's good health."

Desmond gets up to fetch the bottle. "I'll drink to that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long chapter, again in Leonardo's honour.


	14. Chapter 14

Ezio eased himself up from the bed slowly, trying not to grunt too hard at the pain spiking on his side. Fuck, the burn hurt, and about trice as badly as he remembered it hurting the night before. The whole right side of his torso feels like wall of _agony_ and moving is not helping it.

"Shit," he mutters and wincingly lifts the edge of the borrowed shirt he's wearing, eying the bandages. They're a little greasy looking around the wound but it doesn't look like he's bleeding. For a moment he prods at the edges of the wound through the tightly woven cloth until he can't anymore and has to breathe through another bout of pain. Damn it, it hurts. He's been shot and stabbed and, yes, burned, plenty of times, but not like this.

He really isn't as young as he used to be, is he?

Going back to lying down and trying to sleep through the burning ache is tempting – but he needs to take a piss and he really needs to check up on his students, his family – Leonardo, if he's still there, if he got back to his workshop alright. The previous night Ezio hadn't had the strength to insist but it's morning now, judging by the light outside the window, and if Leonardo is still in Rosa in Fiore…

Ezio sits up, hissing through his teeth and then taking moment to breathe through the pain until he's better able to handle it. He takes a moment by the chamber pot – which had been left somewhat insultingly close to the bed, as if he was an invalid who can't even move that much – before heading out in search of wayward friends, students and family members.

It's early still and the brothel is quiet. There is a customer passed out in the front hall, lying half on and half off a chair there, dead to the world – but there are very few of Claudia's girls. No doubt they'll be resting after night of busy work. If only Ezio could be doing the same – and for same reasons. Being laid low by an injury…

 _Bah_ , he thinks and then heads to the back again. Likely everyone else will be asleep as well – but he's thirsty. Surely Claudia had some ale about, or wine. It's a brothel after all – it would always have wine.

What Ezio finds in the kitchen isn't exactly wine – though there are couple of empty bottles of it on the table. What he finds is Leonardo da Vinci fast asleep with his cheek on the kitchen table, with papers and half finished paper planes and other things strung about him. Across from him is Miles, also fast asleep with his head pillowed in his arms, with another paper plane half finished under outstretched hand.

Ezio stares at them for a moment. It's not exactly a scene he's unfamiliar with – certainly he and Leonardo had spend many a night drinking and fooling for no other reason than because they could. And he himself has spent drunken nights in worse activities than many toys and darts out of wanted posters – but that was then.

"I suppose I now know how my father felt," Ezio muses out loud and winces at a twinge of pain that isn't entirely physical. "Shit," he grumbles – and that's when Miles wakes.

"What's that?" the young man asks, lifting his head and then wincing and grabbing at his neck. "Oh, _oww_ …"

"Good morning," Ezio says, arching a brow at him and then limping closer to see if any of the wine bottles might have something left in them. "Seems like you had a much more pleasant night than I did."

"What are you doing up – you're injured," Miles asks, giving him a bleary look.

"I have a _burn_ , I'm not crippled. And I'm thirsty," Ezio says, checking the bottles. "How much of Claudia's wine did you drink last night?"

"Er," Miles answers and looks at the bottles. "Apparently two whole bottles," he says then in dawning horror. "She's going to kill me."

"Worse – she' going to _charge_ you," Ezio says and sits down with a grunt on one of the open chairs by the table. "And me too – get me a bottle."

"No," Miles says sharply and stands up. "You're injured – you're getting water. And food."

Ezio makes a face, but the young man is already going to check the pot by the stove, peering in and then pouring some of the water into a cup, placing it in front of Ezio before heading in the pantry. Ezio gives the cup a dismayed look – but he drinks it. He _is_ thirsty and even if it's not wine, it's better than nothing.

"When did you become such a mother hen?" Ezio asks dubiously, when Miles returns with bread, cheese, some cured meat and dried plums. "Also Mother won't thank you for raiding her pantry."

"Maria won't thank me for leaving you hungry," Miles says and collapses back to the chair he'd been sitting on, holding a cup of water and sipping at it with a wince. "Eat up. Once you're done, I'll check the burn."

Ezio gives him a look but goes for the food – he knows better than to distain it, when he's injured. Lifetime of injuries and recovery have taught him better. Miles watches him, leaning his cheekbone to the meat of his palm and Ezio looks away, feeling oddly uneasy under the flat and unamused stare.

His son, he thinks and smothers a wince.

"You and Leonardo were up until late, were you?" Ezio asks, breaking off a piece of the bread and layering cheese and meat on top of it.

"I don't even know. I completely lost the track of time. We were talking about aviation," Miles says and reaches for one of the paper constructions. It's not like his usual paper darts – this one is far more pointed. "That man can _drink_ ," he comments then.

"Leonardo? He can drink men twice your size under the table when he wants to," Ezio snorts, looking his snoring friend over and then frowning. "And I don't think he has had much chance to take a break or make merry of late."

"No, probably not," Miles says and throws the paper plane. It flies like a _knife_ across the room and hits a wall with a raspy thud before falling to the floor. The young man digs a knuckle into his temple. "You think Claudia has any willow bark here?"

"Willow bark?" Ezio asks, frowning. "I doubt it. Why?"

"It's good for pain, especially headaches, if you haven't got anything else on hand. Willow bark tea," Miles says with a sigh and looks at him. "You could use it too, probably. I wonder there's any willows growing around here…"

Ezio eyes him warily, biting into his bread. "You really know much about medicine then?"

"Not as much as I know about this," Miles says, motioning at the paper plans. "But yeah, I suppose I do. Not enough to call myself a doctor, but… at least what I know can be trusted."

"You're very confident of yourself." Ezio comments.

"Yeah, well. I'll be more so once I'm sure you're not about to get an infection. I really don't think I can make penicillin properly," Miles mutters and eyes Ezio's wounded side. "Chances are it'll just kill you faster. So please, don't get infected."

"I'll try not to. What is peni – penicilin?" Ezio asks, testing the word carefully.

"A medicine that can help with infection if made right, but it's hard to make right without the right tools," Miles says. "And when made wrong it can make things worse faster."

"Hmm… Let's hope it doesn't get to it then. You're more confident about sharing what you know," Ezio comments, giving him a look.

Miles shrugs, tilting his head and turning his eyes away, to Leonardo. "Yeah," he says, looking the painter over with an odd look about his face.

Ezio looks at Leonardo too, and then reaches to kick at his chair. "Hey, Leonardo – wake up. Leonardo!"

"He drank a lot," Miles comments.

"He has work to do – and a very cruel benefactor he's working under," Ezio says darkly. "He shouldn't have stayed; it puts him at a risk. Leonardo, wake up, old friend. You need to head home now."

"Hrmm," Leonardo answers, tucking the lopsided beret down and to cover his eyes. "Just another hour, Salaì…"

"I'm not Salaì and I don't think you have the time, Leonardo," Ezio says, thinking back to yesterday. Everything is a little blurry but he recalls that Leonardo had work to do. "Don't you have a design waiting for you to finish it – design which has to be ready by noon?"

Leonardo grumbles against the table for a moment and then lifts his head. "Ezio," he says, confused – but he's looking at Miles.

"Over here, you drunkard," Ezio snorts at him and confusedly Leonardo turns to him, squinting his way with watery, bleary eyes. "You have a _fun_ day ahead of you," Ezio laughs at him. "How much did you drink?"

"Ugh," Leonardo answers and rests his forehead against the table while pointing blindly at Miles. "You are _terrible_ influence."

"When it comes to drinking, absolutely the worst," Miles agrees, smiling a little. "Some water, Maestro?"

"Ugh."

Ezio watches them with amusement – Miles with his obviously stiff neck and back and Leonardo with his even more obviously badly aching head. It's not every day he can enjoy friends making worse decisions than he had the night before, he muses – and then winces at the sting of his side. Though then again…

"Shouldn't you be in bed?" Leonardo asks then, giving him a look.

"Nag, nag," Ezio answers. "I'm _fine_ it's only a burn. It makes me neither feeble nor crippled."

"You _say_ that but you also sit crooked."

Ezio straightens his posture and then winces as it tugs at the burn. "I'm fine," he says through gritted teeth.

"Yeah, I think it's time I look that over," Miles says while handing Leonardo a cup of water. "Can you take off your shirt? It's on the way."

Grunting wordlessly in answer, Ezio struggles out of his shirt, wincing at the way it stretches out the wounded skin. Miles gives him and knowing look and then kneels down on the floor beside him to unwind the bandages.

The wound is terribly sticky and the feel of Miles peeling off the soaked piece of bandage makes Ezio wince and shudder with the painful pull of it. Under it, the wound is ugly and messy, glazed with mixture of gold and green _slime_ – but the bleeding has stopped and the skin isn't as badly swollen as Ezio had feared.

Miles examines the wound carefully for a time and then nods. "I'll clean it and apply the honey and aloe again, and hopefully it will be fine."

"Hopefully?" Ezio asks, while tilting his head to try and look. He's seen worse burns. It hurts like _hell_ but he really thought it'd be worse by now, blistering and gathering puss. There are blisters, but he doesn't see any which might have the sicklier puss in them, though.

"Hopefully. Knowing something about this doesn't make me a doctor," Miles says and stands to check how much water there is on the water pitcher on the stove. "I'm going to go wash my hands, I'll be back in a moment – don't touch it," he says sharply when Ezio tries to prod at the wound. "You'll put impurities on it – let it be."

"My hands are clean!" Ezio complains.

" _No touching_ ," Miles just orders and then heads off.

Leonardo chuckles against his water cup. "He's very formidable," he says amusedly.

"He wasn't the last I saw him," Ezio mutters. "I think I preferred it when he was flailing about trying to lie. Obviously my sister has been bad influence on him."

Leonardo smiles at that, leaving his head on his palm. "He's a very bright your man," he says. "It's not an average person that could take what they've put into his mind and _manage_ it the way he does."

Ezio frowns. "What they've put into his head?" he asks. "What do you mean?"

Leonardo's eyes flicker to the paper planes on the table. "The Apple of Eden, Ezio," he says. "He's divined knowledge from the Apple. Quite a bit of it, too. The things he knows nearly go beyond my comprehension. They were trying to perfect my flying machine, I think – and more than perfect it."

Ezio stares at him for a moment and then look at the paper constructions on the table. He'd known there was something there, but… "Did you know?" he asks quietly.

"No, I knew nothing of it, Ezio, I swear," Leonardo says and lifts his head with a weary sigh. "I think after you destroyed the flying machine they did not dare to trust me anymore – or perhaps they thought I had contributed all I could to its design. And they were right. I tried but I couldn't get what Miles got from the Apple. To me it only gave hints and whispers. To him… it's given knowledge, pure and pristine."

"And dangerous," Ezio guesses darkly.

"Knowledge isn't dangerous. How people use it is," Leonardo says plainly and looks at him. "I do not think he gave what he knew to the Borgia, however. If what he knows is already out there, Cesare would have put it to use somehow and I would have heard of it. But Ezio – Miles does want to use what he knows. He wants to build the things he can see in his mind."

Ezio nods slowly, picking at a piece of cheese. Just like Leonardo does, no doubt, he thinks and bows his head. "When he agreed to join the Brotherhood it was with a condition," he admits quietly. "That if he wanted to one day pursue other things, I'd let him. He only joined because he can't do what he wishes under Borgia rule."

Could Ezio allow it, now, knowing what he does?

Leonardo watches him seriously and then looks up past his shoulder. The painter blinks and then narrows his eyes, confused – and Ezio turns to look.

Miles enters the kitchen again, his sleeves rolled up past his elbows – with an enormous black brand on his left arm. While Ezio stares at it in incomprehension, the young man walks over to the stove to get the water pitcher. "I'm going to clean the wound now," he says, as if there is _nothing wrong._ "This is going to hurt, probably."

Ezio opens his mouth and then follows Miles down with his eyes as the young man crouches by his chair to get a better access to the wound. The brand is almost impossibly black on his arm, winding around it from wrist to elbow, its flat colour smooth and its edges knife sharp, as if someone really had taken a knife to him and sliced the images to his skin – only there is no actual imperfections on his skin, the surface is completely smooth. And the designs are intricate too, curling around the edges and forming strange shapes.

Miles ignores his staring – or doesn't notice it at all – as he soaks a bit of cloth in lukewarm water and then, much to Ezio's actual real agony, starts wiping the wound clean.

"Fuck –" Ezio winces and grabs at the table. "Oh, that _stings_."

"Yeah, I bet it does," Miles says, folding the cloth over and then continuing to wipe the wound clean. "It's pretty bad."

"You're telling me," Ezio grunts and closes his eyes, blowing out a breath. Every swipe of the cloth feels like he's being rubbed by a piece of the pavement. "Is this necessary?"

"No, I'm just doing this to torture you for my own sick pleasure," Miles says and gives him a look. "Do you want an infection?"

" _No_."

"Then sit still and I'll try to get this done quickly. It'll feel better once I get some aloe on it."

Ezio sighs and tries to sit still. He really did like the boy better when he didn't know what to do except lie very badly. "I thought young people should be respectful of their elders," he grumbles. And sons of their fathers, he thinks but it's… still too early to try that one out loud.

"Good luck with that," Leonardo says, distracted. "Salaì hasn't _ever_ respected me and I don't think that'll change anytime soon."

"Well, if you fail to get respect you're owed, there's no hope for the rest of us," Ezio says and looks down at Miles again. The brand is right there, again – Miles is using that hand to clean the wound, so it's impossible to not see it. How on earth did it _get there_?

"That is quite the mark on your skin," Leonardo comments.

Miles pauses at that, holding the wad of cloth just over Ezio's skin and then looking at his arm as if he only noticed it. "Yeah," he says then and shakes his head. "Isn't it?"

"How did you get it?" Ezio asks, now that the subject has been breached.

"How you usually get a tattoo. Needles were involved, some ink, stuff like that," Miles says wryly.

Tattoo? "Miles," Ezio says darkly. "You don't get a brand like that for no reason."

"A brand?" Miles asks and looks up with confusion and then his expression clears in realisation. "It's not a brand – I had it made. I even paid to have it made," he says and brushes the knuckles of his right hand over the curling black designs on his arm. "No one strapped me down and forced it on me, calm down."

"You – had it made?" Ezio asks in confusion. "Why?"

Miles shakes his head. "Because I _wanted to_ ," he says and glances up. "Do you want me to take care of your wound or not?"

Ezio shakes his head with confusion and looks up at Leonardo for guidance, but Leonardo is distracted by staring at Miles.

"It must have been difficult," the painter says thoughtfully, staring at the black markings on Miles' skin. "Such things are forbidden by the church. I can't even imagine how you managed it."

Miles huffs a breath at that. "Yeah, because we're all very God and church fearing people here," he agrees and sets the cloth down, standing up to get the honey and Aloe instead. "I can cover it up if it makes you so uneasy, but it's just a picture. No need to freak out about it."

"Freak out?" Ezio asks confusedly.

"Be alarmed," Miles explains dismissively and turns back to him with the two jars. "Brace yourself."

"Yes, yes," Ezio says and then winces as the young man starts applying his cures on the burn. He sighs at the touch of the aloe, as it cools the painful skin – but the honey doesn't feel like it's doing anything other than making his skin sticky. He bears it anyway - it doesn't seem to be making the wound worse anyway.

Thankfully, it doesn't take as long as the wound cleaning had, and Miles is ready in less than few minutes. He binds the wound with a fresh roll of gauze from Claudia's stores and bids it expertly around Ezio's waist, with a wad of cloth against the wound.

"Now try not to agitate it too much – and no stretching movements," Miles says. "I'll look it over in the evening again, see how it's processing."

"Thank you," Ezio sighs, bracing a hand carefully over the wound and then letting it drop into his lap. He knows how bad burns of such size can be, how dangerous – if Miles' odd cures would prevent the setbacks one usually got from such injuries… he'd thank the man for every painful moment of it. "Do I need to drink more salt now?"

"Are you feeling faint?"

"Not terribly."

"Then I think eating just normally will do," Miles says and gathers up the dirty bandages, balling them into a wad and setting them aside to be cleaned. "Food, rest, no extraneous stunts that might break the skin while it's healing, and don't pick at the wound, and you'll be fine in time."

Ezio nods and slowly eases his shirt back on. "I suppose I won't be fighting fit for a few days," he mutters. And he has Claudia's troublesome customer to hunt down too, as payment for the tutelage she had given to his students. Great.

"Not unless you absolutely have to," Miles says firmly.

"Right," Ezio sighs.

"Well, you look like you're in good hands," Leonardo says and drains the last of his water. "I should return to the workshop – I do have a commission to accomplish. I'll do all I can to hinder its production, but I cannot stop it and I can't refuse it either, not if I want to keep my life," he looks at them and makes an apologetic face. "Ezio…"

"I will deal with it when the time comes," Ezio promises, giving him a look in return. Would that he could, he'd hide Leonardo away in the cellars under the Tiber Island hideout and just… keep him both safe and _away_ from all the destructive influences that had him building his terrible war machines. But he knows he can't.

Leonardo would wither if he couldn't create – and he creates not for himself but for the world. To isolate him from it would be cruelty beyond anything Ezio is capable of. He can kill a man and murder another – but he could never destroy one's spirit like that.

Leonardo looks at him and then bows his head. "Thank you, Ezio. I know I can always count on you," he says and then stands – and wavers. "Oh, my head," he groans and then shakily sits back own again. "Maybe in a moment."

Ezio arches his brows at him. "Leonardo, we've put away half a dozen bottles between us and never felt worse for it," he says. "Are you getting _old_ on me?"

"Perish the thought," Leonardo groans and rubs at his forehead. "I will be forever young and virile, just watch me."

Miles looks between them, the corner of his scarred lips curling upwards in amusement – and what a sight must they make to him, in his youthful years of twenty-five? The Master Assassin and the Maestro, laid low by injury, wine and _age_. Hadn't they just been as young as he? Where had the years gone?

"I think the Maestro might need help getting back to his workshop," Ezio says with a laugh and looks at Miles. 

"The Maestro is right here and can _hear_ you," Leonardo grumbles. "I'll be right off, just give me a moment to find my balance. My head is spinning."

"Yeah, I think I'll walk him home," Miles says, laughing, and looks at Ezio. "Eat something more in the mean while – and drink plenty of water. Clean water, that's been boiled at least once."

"Fine, fine," Ezio sighs and waves a hand to Miles who goes to Leonardo's side to help the grumbling painter up to his feet. "Be careful with the guards – they will be changing watches right about now."

"We'll take care," Miles promises and winds an arm under Leonardo's armpit. "Come on, Maestro. Up you get."

"Why are you so chipper?" Leonardo asks bitterly, while the younger man supports his wavering form by the elbow. "You drank more than I did!"

"And I drank water between cups," Miles says and shrugs. "It helps."

"Why is water your cure all for _everything_?" Leonardo asks suspiciously, giving him a look.

"It isn't – but it helps. Humans are mostly made of water, you know," Miles says, reaching to grab Leonardo's beret from the table, plopping it on the painter's head. "And your headache right now is mostly caused by dehydration."

"By what? Humans are mostly made of water?" Leonardo asks, and thus, sufficiently distracted, lets himself be hauled off by the smiling younger man.

Ezio looks after them, amused and worried and then shakes his head. Once Miles comes back, they'd have a long talk about all the things the young man knows, he thinks as he rubs at his aching side. They would have to decide how to deal with it too, what to do about it. Lot of it might be useful like Miles' medical knowledge, but if Leonardo is right and Miles knows things beyond realm of men…

And there were other things to talk about too.

Ezio sits there for a moment, in the silence of the early morning light screening through the four dusty window, eying the paper planes and birds on the table. His… son is handy with his fingers, if nothing else, he thinks. And Miles doesn't seem so terribly skittish about sharing his past anymore, either. Now it's just Ezio's turn to pluck his courage and deal with the consequences of his own actions.

… maybe he'll have a small nap first, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kinda pulled the reactions to the tattoo from my ass because tattoos kind of disappear in western history for a while, probably due to the fact that they've been banned by the church. But it seems more likely that people would assume "branded criminal" rather than "expression of individuality" around this time. I think they're being used to brand criminals someplace around 16th century... might be wrong though. Like said, it's hard to find much reliable info about what people thought of tattoos around the time.


	15. Chapter 15

"Thank you, Miles, I think I can walk straight now."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm quite certain, yes," Leonardo says firmly and breathes a sigh when the younger man releases the arm around him, stepping back a little. "I can manage my way back to the workshop on my own – you needn't escort me."

"I think Master would be… displeased with me if I went back without making sure you made home safely. As an assassin we're meant to complete our missions to their conclusion – and this is as good as. What kind of assassin will I make if I stop half way?"  Miles asks in good humour and adjusts his belt idly. "And besides, it gives me the excuse to skip out on training. And steal more posters."

Leonardo smiles a little, rubbing at his temple. It's still aching, but fresh air has cleared it a little – as has the early morning light, blinding in it's intensity after the softer shades of Rosa in Fiore. "In that case," he says with nod. "You really collect all the posters you see?"

"It's free material," Miles shrugs. "And it helps Master be not so recognizable. Two birds with one stone."

"Hmm," Leonardo agrees and continues down the street, now under his own power. His steps are still faltering a little – his stomach is not happy that morning and his head still spins – but it's getting better. "I could provide you with paper and such if you have the need for some that _doesn't_ already have ink on it. The Borgia supply me with my materials," which is one of their excuses for the pitifully low pay for the work he does – since he needs not to buy his own tools, there is no need for such _exuberant costs_ , no?

"I'd hate to impose," Miles says and rests a hand where he had hid his marvellous Aviation Codex. "But I could use another book to write on. This one cost me all I had, and good morning of pick pocketing on top."

"The Medicine Codex, then?" Leonardo asks interestedly. "I would be very interested in it, if you chose to write it."

"Maybe," Miles admits, smiling sheepishly and looking away, towards the rising sun. With the hood on to shield his eyes from the low hanging sun's glare, he looks so much like his father used to that it _aches_ to look at him. The shadows cast on his face are so familiar. "I don't know as much about it as I do of aviation, but… it's _something_ I guess."

"As you say," Leonardo says and rubs his hands together against the morning chill. "So much of medicine seems to be trial and error, I've found. Your knowledge, if truly accurate, could be of great benefit to the world."

Miles nods and bows his head a little. "It's hard to explain why it's accurate, though," he murmurs. "How do you do it, explain away the knowledge you got from the Apple?"

"I try to build around it," Leonardo says and looks ahead. "I build them in my head and once I see them in motion I try and figure out _why_ they work as they do. It doesn't always work, but often I get to an explanation that's reasonable enough that that lifts only a few eyebrows."

Miles nods slowly. "I can't do that," he says then.

"Hm?" Leonardo hums in enquiry.

"I'm not a genius like you, and I'm not really an inventor. I've never really cared or wondered about how stuff works," Miles admits and sighs. "All I have is the knowledge. I don't have the know-how to really do much with it."

Leonardo peers at him curiously. "But you already _are_ doing something with it," he says. "You build your paper airplanes, you write your codex. That's already quite a deal you're doing."

Miles doesn't answer immediately. "I should do more, though," he says then. "I should do better. I should… be able to explain it better."

"Ah," Leonardo says and considers it. The young man has no formal education, he doesn't think – especially not in the intricacies of engineering. Neither did Leonardo, really – he learned what he could but his education had been very basic before Verrocchio and his apprenticeship in arts. Verrocchio had had some interest in engineering and in the function of things and it had laid a great base work for Leonardo's later studies… but most he now knows he learned on his own by trial and error

At twenty-five, Miles is too old for an apprenticeship of any sort, never mind one as involved as one in engineering. And of course, before the Apple had given him knowledge… he might've never even qualified for such things.

"You can read and write," Leonardo says. "Do you know Latin?"

"Some," Miles admits. "I don't know technical language though – just enough to listen to a church sermon or read the bible, maybe, but that's about it."

Already more than most of Leonardo's students. "If you are interested I can lend you some documents of mine – my designs and works in engineering that are of no interest to the Borgia. It might give you some idea as to how better clarify your gift of knowledge. And in return, you will make me a copy of your Aviation Codex."

Miles nods slowly at that. "Alright," he says hesitantly. "Though I already promised I would, you don't need to bribe me for it," he adds with a smile and shakes his head. "But I really do need another book to write it on – I really don't have the money to buy one."

"I'll provide one, never fear – in fact I should have some books yet to be written upon at the workshop," Leonardo says, warming to the idea fast. "Come, we're almost there."

Hastening his step does not agree well with either his head or his stomach, but he lets the excitement carry him quicker over the cobblestone street, Miles following him with slightly amused smile. "I also have some sketches I have done on anatomy of the human body," Leonardo tells him. "Particularly the system of blood circulation – I think you'll find interesting. I had hoped to find a doctor here who might ally with me in the study of human anatomy and now with your theory of blood pressure…"

He trails away as they come upon the entryway to his workshop – and find the door wide open, with a number of Borgia guards hanging by. Leonardo's blood, for all that it is warm and pressurised and moving within him, feels as if it grows cold and _stops_.

"Miles," he says urgently, pushing at the younger man's side. "Get away, quickly –"

"Not so fast, Maestro," a sharp voice speaks before Miles can so much as take a step. "We have been waiting for you, how wonderful of you to finally show."

It's a man he doesn't know, dressed head to toe in armour. A captain, then – well now, doesn't Leonardo rank high these days. Usually it is only the foot soldiers that are sent in to harass him in his work, them and the overseers.

"Sir, I apologise – it is early and I did not expect my services to be required until noon," Leonardo says while desperately thinking of a way to send Miles on his way. The clothes and armours of a novice assassin aren't much like Ezio's and might be mistaken for mere poor fashion sense – but Miles is armed with a knife and a hidden blade, and there were wanted posters of him too.

And if now, after escaping from them the Borgia find him again because of Leonardo… Ezio might never forgive him.

"You have not heard then," the armoured man says. "I'm afraid there has been a terrible incident in Alban hills, Maestro – come, we really must discuss it behind closed doors. Your _friend_ as well, sir," he says and before Leonardo can say anything, the man has a gun in hand. "Now, Maestro."

He's not the only one with a gun, Leonardo spots with despair and glances at Miles. The young assassin's face is alert but not alarmed and when he meets Leonardo's eyes, there is no fear there.

"Inside," the Borgia Captain orders and, at gun point, they head into the workshop – where, Leonardo finds to his dismay, there are more guards, two whole patrol's worth – too many even for Ezio to safely fight in such closed quarters.

"Leonardo!" Salaì cries at the sight of him and makes an aborted move to come to him, stopped by a heavy hand on his shoulder. "You're alright – I told you he would be back!" Salaì says to the guards. "I said he was only off to have a nice night out and away from work and that he'd be back by morning and so it was!"

"Salaì, are you alright?" Leonardo asks, searching him with his eyes. He seems uninjured and there isn't a mark on him, but the Borgia rarely leave visible signs, and internal injuries sometimes leave little in way of external clues.

"I'm alright – I am _annoyed_ and they refused to let me so much as take a piss while we were waiting for you. But I'm alright," Salaì says and looks at Miles. "Who's this?"

"Yes, Maestro, indeed – who is this?" the Borgia Captain asks, motioning the gun carelessly at Miles – who doesn't have nearly strong enough armour to handle a musket ball.

"This is – son of a friend of mine," Leonardo says quickly, entirely truthful, if half panicking. Miles is so recognisable and the scar on his lips is rather noticeable – and there _had_ been wanted posters… "I was sizing him up as a new assistant – seeing as I don't have many offers, these days," he adds in a murmur and casts Miles an apologetic look.

"I see," the Captain says and narrows his eyes at Miles. "You have a name, son of a friend?"

Miles' throat works and then he bows his head, very careful. "Emilio – sir," he says then, very quiet and meek.

"Hmm," the Captain hums, suspiciously, and then motions with his musket towards Salaì. "Go sit down with the other boy, Emilio, and _shut up_ ," he says and then rounds up on Leonardo. "Maestro," he says, dangerous. "Have you per chance heard the news?"

"The – the news?" Leonardo asks nervously, looking between Salaì and Miles, who quickly takes seat beside Leonardo's student, much to Salaì's obvious interest. "I'm terribly sorry, I haven't heard anything."

"From Alban hills," the Captain says, waving his musket around. "You see, I was just coming from there, when the news caught me. It seems like the Florentine Assassin has run rampant through your project there," he says dangerously. "Forty-four men _killed,_ Maestro, and your project completely decimated. You have heard nothing of it?"

Leonardo opens his mouth and then swallows. Forty-four, _good god_ , Ezio, he thinks and then clasps a hand over his chin. "I – I have heard nothing," he says, and the alarm isn't hard to fake. "It was my understanding that the project was already finished, that the machines were ready for deployment – honestly I assumed they already had…"

"Did you, indeed," the Captain says, pacing few steps fro and back again. "You understand our concern then, Maestro. Obviously the Florentine Assassin is after your machinery, your inventions. He means to put an end to their production for good."

Leonardo says nothing. The Borgia know of his friendship with Ezio – of course they would suspect him. Oh, if he just could've gotten Miles out – if Miles had acquiesced to not following him here… "I am sorry," he says then. "All I can do is build the machines – I can hardly ensure their safety once they have been built. They are war machines – they will obviously have opponents."

"Precisely," the Captain says and turns to him. "And neither can we assure your protection for as long as you remain in Rome. To that end, I will be overseeing the newest project personally in a secure location – and by the order of Cesare Borgia himself you, Maestro, will be accompanying me."

Leonardo swallows, feeling suddenly ill in a way that has little to do with the previous night's drinking. "Yes, of course," he says quickly, bowing his head. "I only need to pack away my designs and I will be ready to go."

"Do so. You have half an hour," the Captain says and motions the other guards to back away.

"I guess I'll be watching over the shop in the mean while with Emilio here?" Salaì asks, half hopeful.

"The workshop will be under armed guard, never fear," the Captain says and Leonardo stares at him in mounting horror. "We wouldn't _dream_ of depriving the Maestro of his assistants' services."

"Sir, please, you cannot _possibly_ ," Salaì starts saying, alarmed, looking to Leonardo for help. "Certainly it is someone who is familiar with the Maestro's work and the care it needs that must to tend to the workshop in his absence, not an – "

Leonardo shakes his head, helpless. The last time he'd brought an assistant with him to a building site under Cesare Borgia's command… the assistant had not made it out alive. "Sir, please, Salaì is a painter only," he says. "And – Emilio knows little to nothing of my work yet, I was only interviewing him. Neither of them knows engineering. Really, they will not be much help at the site – they'll serve better here –"

The noise the Captain makes is entirely without humour. "I think not, Maestro," he says grimly. "Someone is leaking our information to the Assassin. Someone is leading him right to our most important secret projects. It's a leak that starts here, Maestro," he says and leans in. "And it is a leak I am putting a stopper to. Your assistants will accompany you, Maestro. I suggest they try and find ways to make themselves useful – by packing. _Now_."

Salaì looks between them in horror, but the word is very final. Miles bows his head, and Leonardo can see him glancing around, counting heads – good god, hopefully he's not planning to do anything drastic. Every man here has a musket in hand, a single ball is enough to kill.

In the end, Miles bows his head and when Salaì finally shakily rises from his seat to begin packing Leonardo's things away Miles does the same, head bowed and eyes shadowed. What he thinks Leonardo can't tell, but he doubts it's good.

Maybe, maybe later he can escape, Leonardo thinks. Maybe…

"Where will the project be taking place, then?" Leonardo asks desperately – maybe he could leave a sign to Ezio so that he could follow them if worse came to worse. "Has the site been selected yet?"

"You will know once we arrive there," the Captain says and nods to Miles and Salaì. "I suggest you help your assistants, Maestro – the faster we're done here, the faster you will see the site."

Leonardo swallows, and thinks better than to try again. The soldiers around them are all impassive and humourless, and he doubts he could get anything useful out of them right now – they are far too disciplined and they hardly like him. It's hopeless.

Biting his lip on the helpless desperation, Leonardo turns to Salaì and Miles, and joins them in packing.

It doesn't take long at all to bundle up Leonardo's writings. While Salaì packs them sets of clothes and other necessities, Miles packs the writings and books away in chests at Leonardo's quiet diction – he says nothing though, and his face has gone coolly impassive under his hood. And Leonardo can't even apologise to him for getting him into such trouble.

Outside, a carriage is being driven in front of the workshop entrance – and the moment a chest is closed, a soldier is there to haul it away, carrying off bits and pieces of Leonardo's work and life – and hope. Salaì brings out the clothes and they are packed away too, and so are Leonardo's tools, his painter's and sculptor's tools all packed and taken, his hammers and saws and knifes… everything.

It's not the first time he's been forced to follow his work with the Borgia away from his more sheltered work space in Rome, but it's never been like this before. The workshop is completely emptied within half an hour, leaving him feeling hollow and unanchored as he is thusly uprooted from Rome. He half expects the soldiers to carry the tables and chairs away too, and chisel away the stones of the mantel piece as well.

"Road awaits, gentlemen," the Borgia Captain says, once everything has been taken and there is nothing left to pack. "Come on."

With nervous and pale Salaì on one side, and impassive Miles on the other, Leonardo bows his head and exits the workshop. There are horses out and ready for long journey, and of course the carriage of everything Leonardo owns is waiting for them – they are loaded onto it like their luggage, to sit in the back behind closed doors and shuttered windows with the Borgia Captain while the soldiers take a honour guard around him.

Immediately after the carriage jerks into movement with clatter of wheels and hooves on cobblestone. The rattling does not do Leonardo's already upset stomach any favours but he swallows it down the best he can. Beside him Salaì is shivering, nervous and uneasy, reaching to take his hand and then stopping mid motion, not daring under the Borgia watch. Miles is entirely still, however, even his breathing silent as he merely watches the Borgia Captain.

"It should be a comfortable enough journey," the Captain says, despite the fact that he cannot possibly be comfortable in full mail like he is. "Lord Cesare Borgia is sparing no expenses in having you delivered safe and sound to the worksite, Maestro."

"So I see. You really must thank the General for me, it is quite the honour to be so cared for," Leonardo says, not quite managing to fake the smile. "Usually I'm barely given a cart to ride on. Quite troublesome, when it rains."

"There will be no trouble on the road this time, I assure you," the Captain says, almost threatening. "Now, Maestro, do tell me about this new project. I perused some of your sketches – I expected better than mere armour for a gunnery position."

He'd seen the unfinished tank designs then, Leonardo thinks and leans back on the rather tight seat between Salaì and Miles. "It is not merely armour, sir – the construction is intended for movement. A mobile, heavily armoured platform for multiple cannons," he says and curses himself for not having finished the designs – introducing intentional flaws to it would be harder, under close scrutiny by the Borgia.

The Captain considers that for a moment. "Now that sounds better," he says. "Do tell me more, Maestro. It's a long way we're going – we have all the time we need to go through the design."

The windows are all shuttered and covered in curtains – there is no telling which way they are going. They could be taken anywhere, Leonardo thinks with dismay, however far. The previous sites had all been relatively close to Rome, but if this one is further away…

How well Miles knows the area, he doesn't know. Could the young man escape, and make it back to Rome, if the chance arose? Would the chance ever even arise?

"Maestro," the Borgia Captain says sharply. "Your design. Talk me through it."

"Yes, of course," Leonardo answers, distracted and then clears his throat. "Building up from the designs of the previous machines – the success of the machine gun's reloading mechanisms, for example – I have a figured out a way to construct much lighter, smaller gun barrels for cannons, and smaller balls as well – which regardless will have as great a impact as the more traditional sort…"

Outside the carriage the buildings of Rome are mere shadows against the lightening sky and the streets are marked by the resonance of their stones against the carriage wheel. Leonardo can tell the moment they cross over from the Centro district to the more haphazard streets at the edge of Rome – they pass from cobblestones to dirt road and the sound changes. Soon after that, the carriage picks up speed.

Miles turns his head slightly to the window, where the sun is showing in sparse sports in the gaps of the curtain, not enough to see where they're going – but enough to know that they're no longer in the shadow of buildings. Leonardo glances at him wretchedly and meets his eyes for a moment, full of anxiety and apology, before turning back to the Captain to continue his treatise on his newest war machine.

Outside, Rome is soon left behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boom.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit more on prostitution and also nakedness.

For the first time in days, Beatrice wakes up on her own after a night of completely uninterrupted rest. For a moment she lies there, feeling an odd absance, and then she turns to look at the other bed, expecting to find Miles curled up in a tight ball in his bed – but he isn't there. There is sunlight screening through the curtains onto the neatly arranged bed covers – it doesn't look like he'd gone to bed at all.

For a moment Beatrice lies there, confused – and then she remembers. Ser Ezio!

She's up and dressed quicker than she has been ever since coming to Rosa in Fiore. The place keeps brothel's hours after all, and most of the people living there wouldn't be seen out of their – or someone else's – bedrooms until well after noon. It isn't how Beatrice usually prefers to go about – she's more of a morning person than the courtesans are – but with Miles, it had been bit of a god sent.

Miles does not so much _sleep_  as he struggles against it.

The brothel is still quiet and calm, with only few other people awake. Maria Auditore is in the kitchen, kneading dough with couple of the more early risers, making that day's bread. Beatrice is immensely relieved to find her calm – surely that means that nothing terrible happened to her Master and teacher while she was asleep.

"Good morning, Madame Maria," Beatrice greets the mother of the brothel's Madame.

"Good morning, dear – you're a little early for breakfast," the elderly woman says but motions to the table anyway. "Sit, I'll have someone fetch you something to eat."

"No, no, that isn't necessary – I can wait," Beatrice says, but sits down anyway. "How is Ser Ezio?"

"Resting, thank heavens," Maria chuckles. "I think he might be learning, finally, that not all things can be walked off."

Beatrice sighs. "That's good," she says. How Miles and the others had reacted to the Master's injury had made her so nervous. She'd never seen anyone get such a large burn – though she always thought that burns were the best kind of injuries to get, as the injury itself cauterised itself? Perhaps it wasn't so after all, Miles definitely had taken it with deadly seriousness.

She doesn't know what she'd do, if something happened to Ser Ezio. Before him her life had threatened to be a short and unhappy one – her foolish attempt to get that the Borgia watch tower had been… well, foolish, but it had also been determined. Now, thinking back to it, she thinks she really would have gotten herself killed in the act sooner or later, and that would have been it for her. And truly, she doesn't think she would have regretted it, then.

Now, now she wants more, she wants to  _be_  more. She wants to be an Assassin and serve Ser Ezio, not only in the liberation of Rome but in all his pursuits. To be part of this Brotherhood is so far beyond anything she could've imagined when she was only a child and now, now she cannot imagine world where she cannot be  _this_.

If something happened to Ser Ezio, could she be this, could she become an Assassin? The Mentor of the Order lets her Master do as he wills from what she'd seen – but for all that Machiavelli is called the  _Mentor_ _,_  he does not teach. If the worst happened to Ser Ezio… would Machiavelli continue her training?

Beatrice rather doubts it.

"Is Miles still asleep?" Maria asks, while watching one of the girls ease the peel under the rolled up dough and another opens the oven to for her.

"Miles hasn't been to his bed at all – I assumed he was watching over Ser Ezio," Beatrice admits.

Maria frowns at that, confused. "No, I sat with Ezio until late into the night. I assumed Miles went to bed after."

Beatrice shakes her head, frowning. "No one's been to his bed all night – it's still as he made it yesterday." And really, she would've woken up at some point if Miles had gone to bed, if not to his arrival then to his constant nightmares.

"Maybe he slept with one of the girls?" Maria wonders, thought frowning.

Beatrice arches her brows. " _Miles_?" she asks dubiously. Well he is easy going with the girls, but… he'd never shown that kind of interest. And there had been offers, too, Beatrice had seen them. She'd also seen the distracted, kind way Miles refused the said offers, time and time again.

Maria's frown grows deeper – darkening with real concern. "Where can that boy be?" she murmurs and turns to one of the girls. "Renata, dear, go and see if you can find my grandson?"

"Yes, Madame Maria," the girl – young for her nightly profession which is why she mostly works in the kitchen with Maria, Beatrice suspects – says and curtsies prettily before hurrying off.

Beatrice looks after her and then stands up. "I'll go look as well," she says. She's not worried, not really – Miles isn't stupid and he's a capable fighter. And what trouble can you get in a whore house, really – except the obvious, for which Miles has little interest for.

"Go see Ezio and Claudia, might be they sent him on an errand," Maria says. "Ezio is in the second room left from yours – Claudia should be with him."

"Yes, Madame Maria," Beatrice says and nods her head in a quick bow before heading off.

Ser Ezio is indeed resting – though not asleep. Lying on his good side on the bed he is, judging by the sound of it, arguing with his sister.

"… well that is because your idea of managing money is  _spending it_  the moment you get it, as if it'd burn a hole into your wallet to keep it," Claudia is saying, leafing through her record book. "Oh, lord, to think of the art collection back at – at the Villa, the  _money_  you put into it. What I could do with money like that now!"

"Well, I had better work under the Medici, and Lorenzo paid  _very_  well for my services," Ser Ezio says, his shirt tucked up to reveal the bandages around his waist, one hand resting close to them but not near enough to put pressure on it. "And there was a purpose to the art, you might recall."

"Regardless." Claudia says. "You could have used putting some of it in a bank outside Monteriggioni. Why did you have none stored in Florence – or Venice! You lived in Venice for years!"

"It wasn't my home," Ezio answers, rolling his eyes. "Why would I leave my money anywhere but home and what use is it lying in a pile? Better to use it than to waste it."

"Saving it for a later day isn't wasting it!" Claudia says, throwing her hands up.

"What does it matter now – it's all gone," Ezio grumbles and looks at her. "And you didn't take the savings from the chest at the Villa either, did you?"

"No, I could not carry a chest that weighed half of me through the tunnels, no," Claudia mutters and rolls her eyes. "I did try though. And if I had succeeded we'd be on better grounds now."

"Claudia," Ezio says seriously. "We're not exactly suffering now, are we? You have Rosa in Fiore and it's booming in business. I have the hideout and the Brotherhood is growing now. We're  _recovering_. It might not be how we're used to being, but we'll manage."

"I just hoped that when our family…" Claudia hangs her head for a moment and then looks up. "Come in if you mean to," she snaps over her shoulder.

Beatrice eases herself in, embarrassed. "Apologies, Madame," she says, wincing – she had not meant to eavesdrop, but to interrupt such an argument… "Madame Maria sent me in to ask whether you've seen Miles? He's not been to his bed all night."

Claudia frowns – and Ezio lets out a laugh and then winces, clasping at his side. "He did not see his bed because he slept in the kitchen," he says. "After drinking the night away with Leonardo. Drinking your wine, Claudia, I might add."

"Like father like son," Claudia says with a huff of breath and leans back. "I'm going to have to charge him for it. Where is he now?"

"I sent him to help Leonardo back to his workshop," Ezio says and then cranes his neck to look to the window. "That was… a few hours ago, actually – he is not back yet?"

"I don't know, Ser Ezio – I only just woke up myself," Beatrice admits, frowning. She did not know Leonardo very well, only as acquaintance of her master – always well dressed and genteel and very noble in his gestures and behaviour. She liked him – but she couldn't have imagined him drinking. Or Miles, drinking with him.

Claudia frowns. "Leonardo's shop isn't that far – surely he should be back already."

Ezio hums. "Those two got along a little too well, from what I saw," he says, amused. "I bet they got hung up on Leonardo's inventions."

"Or something happened," Claudia says and then stands. "Beatrice, find Luciana – she knows where Leonardo's workshop is. Go and look and if Miles is still there, bring him back here."

Beatrice hesitates. She's used to taking commands from Claudia, certainly, but… She glances at Ezio. He's still her master – he's the one whose order's she follows.

"You might as well," Ezio says with a sigh. "It will show you where the workshop is – it might come in handy later on."

"Yes, Master, Madame," Beatrice says and bows her head. "I'll go right away."

Finding Luciana isn't hard – she is one of the more popular girls of the house and as such has a guest room which is all but assigned to her – she is there now, naked and asleep and curled up under the messy covers. Whoever she serviced the night before is long gone, only a number of coins left on the bed serving as a marker of his presence.

"Mmnhm," Luciana groans when Beatrice goes to open the curtains. "Are you kidding me…? I'm sleeping here…"

"Madame told me to ask you to help me find Leonardo da Vinci's workshop," Beatrice says, carefully not looking as Luciana's bare body arches in a stretch. In Rosa in Fiore Beatrice had gotten almost used to seeing so much naked skin – but it is one thing to see a bared thigh or bosom and one thing to watch a woman stretch out her privates into the sunlight.

"Miles went to escort the Maestro back there, and has not returned," Beatrice adds.

"At this hour?"

"Couple hours ago – and it's almost noon now, Luciana."

"Mhn it's still too early. Miles needs to learn how to have fun and relax," Luciana answers, throwing her arms up against the pillows in a stretch and smacking her lips sleepily. "Ugh," she then says. "Can you get me something to drink, Beatrice, please? I can still taste him in the back of my throat."

Carefully not thinking of  _why_  that might be, Beatrice quickly goes and gets the girl a cup of rosewater. Luciana is sitting up when she returns, scratching at the stains on her stomach and chest sleepily – she accepts the cup with a nod and uses it to rinse out her mouth and gargle before draining it dry.

Then Luciana stands up, slapping at her cheeks and sighing. "Alright, give me a moment to clean up and get dressed and we'll go."

While Beatrice waits, Luciana cleans herself up and then pulls on her clothes, with adjusted motions squeezing her ample breasts into the bodice that thrusts them up just so that they look even bigger. Coughing, Beatrice examines the bed and after gathering the coins and setting them aside, she starts tugging the bed clothes off – it's a mess and sheets would need to be changed before evening anyway. She might as well help while she waits.

"Do you need help with your hair?" Beatrice offers once she's done and Luciana is finished tying her laces.

Luciana considers it, tugging at it and then sighing. "Sometimes I wish I could wear a hood too. They seem so much easier," she muses and collapses to sit on the bare bed, quickly eases her dark hair down. "It would warmer too. Oh well. Brush it for me, will you?"

Beatrice nods and grabs a comb from the side table. While Luciana prepares the pins and ties for her hair, Beatrice untangles it with careful, slow strokes until the comb goes through easily. Then she sits back and watches Luciana easily and nimbly do her hair up again, taming the long tresses with a skill that makes Beatrice vaguely jealous. Her own hair is shorter and it falls down straight, with none of Luciana's beautiful curl to it.

Luciana leaves few curls hanging by her face and Beatrice almost sighs how perfectly they fall to frame her face. She could never manage such easy and effortless beauty, herself. Of course she knows now that it's a talent that took Luciana years to master, but regardless… Luciana doesn't even need to see her own reflection to make herself beautiful.

"There, " Luciana says and yawns as she puts on her bell adorned anklets. "I'm ready. Let's go."

Beatrice nods, tugging at the edge of her gambeson and adjusting her hood. She prefers armour to corsets – but she's hardly blind to the fact that bodice looks much better than the thickly padded cloth. Beside Luciana's hourglass figure, she probably looks like a sack of vegetables in a hood.

She does not care. She  _doesn't_. Beatrice is a warrior and she's going to be an  _Assassin_  and she does not  _care_  about being beautiful. What purpose would her being beautiful even serve? It is not as if she is looking to ensnare a husband. Or any man for that matter.

And she has better things to be concerned about right now – she has her fellow recruit to find.

Luciana, completely oblivious to Beatrice's internal turmoil, leads her out of Rosa in Fiore and stretches out her bare arms into the sunlight. "Mmmh, that's unbearably bright," she sighs at the light. "When we get back I am going back to bed and damn all errands."

Beatrice says nothing to that, looking around automatically for a crowd for them to hide themselves in. It's not training and they're not exactly being chased after – but thanks to Madame Claudia's training it's already becoming a habit, to find a spot to hide in. "There," she says.

"Hmm," Luciana agrees and with swinging hips and hand waving enticingly to the passing men, she leads them into the throng of people heading to the market.

"Do you know the Maestro?" Beatrice asks, as they weave through the crowd, Luciana cutting her way through it with all the grace of a snake – or snake charmer, maybe, with how she makes people step out of her way and not even mind doing so.

"A neighbour of his is a customer of mine," Luciana says. "And that assistant he has is a complete _scoundrel_  – and great fun at a tavern."

"You…" Beatrice trails off, trying to think of a delicate way to put it.

"Ah, Salaì has no interest in women – plays the part himself, I think," Luciana hums, utterly careless of the way Beatrice chokes at that. "But while he gambles and rouses up the crowd, it's easy to go around and loosen people's purses."

Beatrice coughs. Well that's… something. "And – the Maestro?" she asks uneasily. "Have you, um…"

"Alas, no, lovely thought it would be. I doubt the Maestro has interest in women either," Luciana says, smiling with pretty dimples on her cheek. "Oh, no need to look so horrified, my dear Beatrice! It's more common than you think."

"It's… it's against the law," Beatrice says, awkward.

"So is murder," Luciana says with a smile and reaches out to flick a finger at Beatrice's chin. "So are  _you,_ my dear."

Beatrice bows her head at that, embarrassed and not quite able to deny it.

"Besides, having no interest in women is hardly criminal," Luciana laughs and looks ahead. "If it was I think we'd need to hang our dear Miles for it. And that, I think, would not go well for anyone, serving as we do under the Auditore."

Beatrice shakes her head and says nothing to that.

They continue through the crowd until Luciana leads Beatrice away from it and into a side street. Weaving through the alleys, the make it into a small enclosure, a sort of back yard hidden amidst the buildings, where they find neither the Maestro nor Miles – but a guard.

"That's the Maestro's workshop," Luciana whispers to Beatrice, nodding to the guarded door with a frown. Beatrice bows her head, sizing the man up. He's tall and armed – but not fully armoured.

"You have no business here," the guard says, clanking his spear against the stepping stones under the door. "Leave."

"We're here to see the Maestro," Luciana says and arches her body just so to show every curve of it. "He's hired me to model for a painting."

The guard looks, tracing his eyes down. "The Maestro isn't here – he has business elsewhere," he says, but his tone is a little less firm already.

"Aww, what a pity. I was so looking forward to it – do you know when the Maestro comes back?" Luciana asks and then takes a step closer – then another, swaying her hips as she goes. "Maybe I can wait here with you. The Maestro has already paid for my time here, and you could keep me company… free of charge…"

"Ah,  _well_  now," the guard says, and lets himself be swayed.

Luciana hums, tracing her hand down the guard's chest, guiding the man's gaze – and when the guard's attention is drawn away far enough, Beatrice steps up to him and puts her hidden blade into his back.

"Quickly," Beatrice says, catching the man by the armpits as he sways and together with now very serious Luciana they grab the man and haul him to the near by wall, arranging him to sit against it with his spear across his knees, as if he'd fallen asleep on the job. Then, while Luciana curiously investigates what the guard had on his belt, Beatrice goes to the door, testing it.

There are more guards inside, three of them, who look up to her and then, immediately, draw arms.

It'd a very hectic couple minutes, as they fight. Drawing a sword at the doorway proves too difficult so Beatrice steps out, leading the men out with her as they rush forth. The first man Beatrice meets with her now properly drawn sword, metal glancing against metal as the man comes at her, and the second round's to take her from the other side, so she draws her hidden blade again, meeting that man's blade as well.

They are confused for a moment when in the light of day they see her and realise they're against a woman – the first man's sword wavers, and that's his doom. Taking the opening so graciously given, Beatrice twists her wrist, gilding the man's blade away from her and thrusting her own into his gut. The second man gains his wits too late to avoid a blow from Beatrice's blade and while he swings up to try and block the blow, Beatrice thrusts the hidden blade at him, at his wrist first, and then at his throat.

The third man rushes forth as well – and never sees Luciana step forward gracefully to put her stiletto dagger into his back.

"I don't think either Miles or the Maestro is here, Beatrice," Luciana says, grabbing her dagger tighter. "And I think we should go now –"

An arrow whizzes down from the rooftops and hits the stones of the ground in a sharp crack.

"Put your arms down, assassins!" the archer on the roof shouts – and he's not alone. There are others – and gunmen besides, holding riffles.

It's an ambush, Beatrice realises in horror. It's an ambush and they're going to be either captured – or killed.

Then Luciana takes something from under her skirts and throws it onto the ground. There is a sharp flash and a  _boom_  – and then the whole place is filled with smoke. A hand grabs Beatrice's in the dark miasma and tugs at her urgently. "Run," Luciana says.

They run.

* * *

 

Ser Ezio struggles to his feet, wincing and cursing, as Beatrice finishes reporting what happened at the workshop. "Did it look like there'd been a fight?" he asks darkly. "Was the workshop ransacked?"

"No, the workshop was empty, Master," Beatrice says, squeezing her hands into fists and wincing at how pale the elder Assassin was. "I only saw glimpse of it, but there was nothing there, only table and some chairs – Master, I don't think you should be moving so fast, you're  _injured_  –"

"To hell with that," Ezio answers and then stops to clasps at his side, breathing heavily. "You, did you see anything?" he asks, looking to Luciana.

"I didn't think to look for an ambush," Luciana admits with a pout that isn't so much theatrics as it is habitual – she probably doesn't even realise she's doing it. "I know the Maestro's workshop has guards but I didn't think there'd be some just laying in wait like that. But I think they were there expecting you. That many archers and riflemen… It was a bit much for just anybody. They were expecting you, I think."

"How did you get away unscathed?" Claudia asks, alarmed.

"The first guard Beatrice killed had a smoke bomb on him – I used it," Luciana answers and looks at Beatrice. "You really should learn to pick the pockets of the men you kill, dear – they carry so many useful things. Like purses," she adds, and flashes one at her, coin inside it jingling merrily.

Beatrice ducks her head at that, embarrassed. She hadn't even thought to try.

Ser Ezio's eyebrows arch a little. "That was quick thinking," he says, looking at her consideringly and then glancing at Claudia. "You hire some capable women."

" _All_  my girls are capable," Claudia says sharply and steps forward. "Was there any sign of Miles there?"

Beatrice shakes her head. "I didn't see much, Madame, I'm sorry. We had to run away too soon and I couldn't investigate properly – but I didn't see him." Or his body.

"And the place was cleared out – not ransacked, but  _emptied_ ," Ezio says and bows his head a little, rubbing at his waist as he thinks. "Leonardo sometimes has to travel for his projects, but usually he leaves the workshop as it is. Only time I've seen him empty a workshop of his was when he moved from Florence to Venice, twenty years ago. And that didn't happen over night."

Claudia scowls. "Could the word of you destroying his machine have reached Rome already?" she asks. "You only arrived."

"If I've reached back, someone else might have as well, and news of such things spread fast," Ezio says grimly and then stands up. "I need to go and look – maybe someone saw what happened."

"You will sit your injured ass down, Ezio," Claudia snaps and turns to Beatrice and Luciana. "You two will go look, see if anyone knows what happened to Leonardo and if they saw Miles. Come back to us the moment you know. Take care – do  _not_  get caught."

"Yes, Madame," Luciana says while Ezio falls back to the bed with a pained, frustrated sigh. Beatrice looks to him and at his nod bows her head.

Together she and Luciana head out again, sharing a worried look as they exit Rosa in Fiore.

"What do you think happened?" Luciana asks, uneasily adjusting her bodice.

"I think the Borgia have them – took them. Why else would there be soldiers there, waiting in ambush?" Beatrice says grimly. "Miles… he was captured by the Borgia before for something, I think. I don't know much about it, but it has something to do with ser Ezio, how they are related."

"A hostage against the Assassins?" Luciana asks, frowning.

"I think it was something more," Beatrice admits.

"Well," Luciana says grimly and checks her stiletto dagger. "Let's go see what else we can find out."

* * *

 

A beggar boy had seen the whole thing, it turns out, though it takes coin to get him to talk. The whole workshop had been emptied in the early morning hours, while he'd been checking the streets to see if anything might've dropped from the carts and wheelbarrows heading for the morning market.

"Soldiers carried everything out in chests and satchels into a fancy carriage," Beatrice reports to Ezio later, while Luciana gets the both something to eat and drink. "Everything was packed away neatly, before the Maestro went into the carriage as well, him and two assistants. They drove away immediately after, leaving just soldiers behind."

"Leonardo only has the one assistant, these days," Ezio murmurs, scratching at his beard. "There is only Salaì, I think. Leonardo must've lied and told them that Miles was his assistant as well, to hide him"

"He thinks quick on his feet, your friend. If the Borgia came to  _demand_  his services and found Miles there, an outsider…" Claudia hugs her arms, looking frustrated and angry. "Why did you send him back with Leonardo?" she demands then. "You  _knew_  he's wanted by the Borgia."

"We're all wanted by the Borgia, Claudia," Ezio says and pushes up to his feet – he must've taken something to the pain because he barely winces now. "I hardly thought they'd get into trouble at crack of dawn – or that Leonardo would have an ambush at his workshop. I killed the guards there last night myself!"

"And you didn't think your actions might have an effect?" Claudia demands. "When you leave bodies behind, people investigate!"

"I didn't – I  _hid_  them," Ezio snaps and then waves a hand at her, turning to Beatrice instead. "Any clue as to where they might've been taken?"

"Out of Rome," Luciana says, carrying in a tray with bowls of broth with tortellini floating in it. "They were packed for a long journey too – and they left good five hours ago, now. They'll be long gone, where ever they were heading."

Ezio stares at her hard while Claudia bites her lip, looking furious. "Leonardo had another design under works, another war machine," he says then grimly. "With what I've done to the previous two, they will be trying twice as hard to hide where the next one will be built. And they'll probably take it farther than just Alban hills, this time."

"And now you've gotten your son tangled up in it," Claudia says darkly. "Well done, brother. A fine father you're making already."

"We're _Assassins_ , Claudia," Ser Ezio says firmly. "This is not a safe life and whatever he is, he is part of this Brotherhood now and I cannot _coddle_  him. We do not have the luxury of sheltered lives, not anymore."

"And that justifies throwing his life away, just like that? Miles is your flesh and blood – don't you care."

"Of course I care! And I did not throw his life away – I send him only to escort Leonardo home, that's all. Or do you think I intended this? Do you really think I would?"

"Well, no, but it still happened, Ezio – and right under your watch –"

Beatrice bows her head and glances at Luciana, who looks just as awkward as she feels, hearing their masters argue so.

"Claudia, Ezio,  _please_ ," Maria says finally, restring a hand on her forehead. "The actions of the Borgia and their soldiers is not your fault, and neither of you could have foreseen this. What matters now is that you find where they've taken Leonardo and Miles."

She looks up to her children, both of whom fall silent. "Find where they've taken my Grandson, and bring him back," Maria Auditore says firmly. "That is all."

Ezio's hands squeeze into fists and Claudia lifts her chin, turning to him. They size each other up for a moment before Claudia nods. "I'll find out where they're doing this new project," she says. "I'll put all my girls on it if I have to. We'll find him."

"And then I'll get him back," Ezio says and then bows his head, leaning onto the table. "I'll need assistance," he says then, grimacing at his injury, and looks at Beatrice.

"I'm at your service, Master," she says quickly, clasping a hand over her heart and bowing her head. "Always."

"Good, I'm going to need you now," Ezio says – and then he looks at Luciana. "You," he says. "Luciana, was it? You seem to have skills."

"Oh,  _Ser Ezio_ , I have many skills. Many,  _many_  skills," Luciana agrees, smiling and leaning forward suggestively even as her eyes sharpen. "I also have a job."

"Hmm," the Master Assassin agrees and glances at Claudia, who folds her arms, looking irritated but thoughtful. "Would you like another one?" Ezio asks then. "The Brotherhood could use a woman like you. And you seem to work well with Beatrice."

Beatrice's head comes up with astonishment while Luciana leans back, thoughtful and a little uncertain. "Well that is… Madame?" she asks slowly, hesitantly.

Claudia rolls her eyes at her brother. "And this rate, you'll soon be calling it a  _Sisterhood_ ," Claudia mutters, and looks at Luciana. "You know what life of an Assassin is like and what they work for. If you want it, you can go – the Rosa in Fiore will not chain you and you are not indentured to her service. But she will be here and always your home, if you ever wish to come back to her."

Luciana blinks, astonished, and then looks down at her bowl of broth. Beatrice watches her in astonishment – she seems so torn. Somehow that surprises Beatrice – but not for the reasons she'd first assumed. Luciana seems to honestly enjoy her work as courtesan and she's very good at it – it's a hard life, but it's not one of death and pain like that of an Assassin. Beatrice isn't sure why Luciana would choose another.

But she does.

"Well then," Luciana says and smiles at Beatrice. "I suppose I will be trying out a hood after all."

Beatrice nods a little uncertainly at that. She'd hoped to see another woman in the Brotherhood, to share this experience with another more like herself. Miles is kind and understanding but it all seems so easy for him, from fighting to the skills of the courtesans – he doesn't mind it, no matter how unsightly it seems. Luciana is another woman, yes, but one very different from Beatrice.

But what difference should that make?

"I'm certain it will suit you perfectly," Beatrice says and smiles.

One day they will be Assassins. That is all that matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And round of applause for my next duckling, Luciana Lanase


	17. Chapter 17

By the time they make it to Monte Circeo, Desmond's ass is numb. Not that he's supposed to know they're at Monte Circeo, but seeing that Leonardo's next big idea is the tank and how paranoid the Borgia soldiers seem about the location and keeping it secret… Mount Circeo seems like a safe bet. The place is a fortress and it's build on a mountain which itself is like a natural fortress.

It had been a bit longer ride than the hop and a skip it took in Animus though. In Animus all he had had to do as Ezio was to walk up to a gate and then he was magically – digitally? – teleported to where he was going to go. In reality, it took all the damn day of riding in a carriage, feeling every rock and pot hole under the wheels as a carriage shaking _rattle_ and now every place below the belt aches. And, judging by Salaì's moaning and Leonardo's suppressed sigh, he's not the only one – when they're finally let outside to stretch their feet, it's a relief.

"Where are we?" Leonardo asks tiredly, as the Borgia overseer steps out as well. They've been driven right into the first fortress, so there's little in way of signs as to where they are beyond the walls and buildings and hint of a mountain rising above – but it is the Fortress of Monte Circeo all right. Desmond would know, with how many times he'd fucked up the mission to get inside in the Animus.

"You are in your new home for the unforeseeable future," the overseer says, unsympathetic and motions to a near by building. "Your workshop, Maestro, included in which is all that is necessary for your comfort. Guards – help us unload the carriage!"

Desmond stretches out his legs with a sigh. There are about two dozen guards he can see off hand – guarding the walls, patrolling the rooftops, lounging about on the ground. Too many for him to take out with just a knife and a hidden blade – so much so, that they hadn't even bothered to take his knife from him. Maybe once the night came he could go around and thin the crowd, but…

He casts a glance towards Leonardo, who looks tired and worried as he watches the guards start to unload his things from the carriage, hauling chests and sacks with little care for their contents. Salaì looks half asleep as he stretches his back, groaning as he does – both of them are too tired and too work for any sort of escape attempt. And as it is… the dozen guards Desmond can see are probably not all of them. Fortresses usually have hundreds.

So, Desmond bows his head for now, and instead grabs a chest to haul inside – trying to ignore the helpless look Leonardo throws his way.

The workshop is pretty great, as far as Desmond can judge these things. Large fire place and plenty of space with several tables already set up for Leonardo – and his unfortunate assistants – to work at. It's also been equipped well, not just with bed rooms and even a washroom, but with tools, papers, even wood and metal and tools to work them.

"You have a day to situate yourself into your new accommodations," the overseer says as Leonardo and Salaì come in to investigate their new home. "The day after tomorrow I want to see results, Maestro – I want to see proof of your work."

"And – and when am I meant to finish the design?" Leonardo asks wearily. "The sketches are still incomplete; I have much left to figure out -"

"I suggest you do whatever you can to _hasten_ their completion," the overseer says firmly. "The sooner you have something to show… the better for you all."

Leonardo twiddles with his hands nervously and then bows his head. "As you say," he says. "I will do my utmost to comply."

Soon the luggage is all carried in and with last warning to "settle in and get to work", they are left alone in the chest and satchel filled workshop, Desmond standing somewhat awkwardly with Leonardo hanging his head in miserable thought while Salaì looks around in obvious distaste.

"Well, at least there is space," Salaì says, and motions disgustedly at the windows. "And plenty of light for people to spy and peep by. We'll have no privacy here, and no break from work either, judging by the looks of it. This is going to be great fun, I can already tell."

"I am sorry, Salaì, this wasn't my intention. And you," Leonardo looks up to Miles. "I am _so_ sorry for getting you tangled in this."

"It's fine," Desmond says, considering the windows – no doubt, they will be eavesdropped too. "Just tell me what to do and I'll try to be useful."

Leonardo looks at him for a moment, his expression twisting in grief and guilt before he bows it. Desmond shakes his head. "Leonardo, I promise – it's fine," he says. "It's going to be fine."

And he's used to being kidnapped and forced to work under his captors, so that is nothing new. Hell, part of this feels like coming home – though he preferred blind folded plane rides over shuttered carriage rides anyway. They were quicker, for one.

"You don't know that," Salaì says and rests his hands on his hips. "Who are you anyway, _Emilio_?" he demands and looks between Desmond and Leonardo. "He is no artist, not with armour. You were not sizing him up for an assistant, not really."

"You would be surprised what artistry armoured men can manage," Leonardo says and runs a hand over his face, his beard, before looking up. "For now, we're under guard. But perhaps later…" he nods towards the door meaningfully.

Desmond looks at him and then away. Later, maybe he could run away… and then try to make his way through who knows how many miles of probably guarded roads between here and Rome – journey which on a proper carriage took them well over fifteen hours – and that was with two changes of horses in between. Borgia hadn't wasted any time getting Leonardo behind the closed gates of to Mount Circeo Fortress – trying to get _away_ now would take much more effort.

And Desmond knows precisely nothing of the land between here and Rome – the Animus hadn't given him that. And reality here isn't kind, isn't easy – injuries don't get erased by a bottle of medicine and sleep and food aren't just by passed as unnecessary to the _game_. With his luck he'd starve before he ever reached Rome, if he didn't get killed by who knows what on the way.

Leonardo stands up and comes closer to him. "Miles, you must get away as fast as possible," he says urgently, quietly – too quietly to be over heard even by Salaì, who makes a face at them. "I don't know if Cesare is here, but if comes and sees you… you _must_ get away."

Desmond sighs at that. "Leonardo," he says. "The Borgia…"

"They _cannot_ have you again," Leonardo says, grabbing at his shoulder. "Not with what you know. Ezio would never –"

"The Borgia never had me."

Leonardo stops at that, staring at him. "They… never had you? But –" he stops there and just stares at him.

Desmond bows his head a little. He can't lie about this, not now – not when trying to prevent something that might never even be an issue might get Leonardo hurt or killed. "They never had me," he says again, grimacing a little and looking away from the windows, to hide his expression from potential onlookers. "And only Rodrigo ever saw my face – Cesare has never seen me. Rodrigo might've told him about me, but I – I'm not what you think I am."

"But… your knowledge," Leonardo says softly. "How could have you gotten it if it wasn't from the Apple?"

Desmond bows his head at that.

He's been chewing on it through the whole damned carriage ride, _stewing_ on his own lies, afraid that they might get Leonardo and Salaì killed. Never mind the Auditore and how they would react, what they would do just for him – because of what they _think_ he is to them. And sure, the connection is there and it matters, but it's… it's not as intimate as they think. If they knew he isn't not Ezio's son…

If he had just told them – or at least cleared their assumptions instead of taking gleeful advantage of them – then maybe… maybe… He _should've_ told them the truth when he had the chance. But instead he'd taken their guesses and he'd let them carry him off because it was easier and because it was enough of an explanation to free him from the duty of justifying himself.

 _God,_ he doesn't even want to think of Maria might be thinking right now, what her children might do – what Ezio might do for the son he doesn't know he doesn't actually have.

Desmond sighs again and shakes his head. "I'll explain everything once we can talk in private," he says quietly, hoping that it would be _later_ , a _lot_ later. "But you don't need to worry about it. All they know me as is the assassin who tried to kill the Pope – that is all. Chances are people here haven't ever even heard of me."

Leonardo watches his face for a moment, searching his eyes silently – Desmond can almost _hear_ how hard he is thinking. Then Leonardo's expression hardens a little. "It is an explanation I will be eager to hear," he says then.

Salaì watches them with his arms folded, looking between them suspiciously and knowingly. "Now you're making me _very_ curious," he says and tilts his head. "You went to Rosa in Fiore, Leonardo. Might our dear Emilio be –?"

" _No_ ," Leonardo says and turns away from Desmond. "And you cannot speak of such things here, Salaì, you know better. Now come, let's start setting up the workshop. We might as well do it properly since we're here – and it looks like we will be here for a while still."

Desmond hangs his head a little. "Can I help?" he offers quietly.

Leonardo glances at him and then nods. "Start unloading the chests," he says. "Salaì will tell you where to put everything."

Desmond nods and with Salaì arching his brows at him, he gets to work.

It takes them about an hour to set up the workshop to how Leonardo likes it, with easels all set up and paper and canvases piled up on the tables, the few books Leonardo has set up on a table by a wall and so on. While Salaì sets up the various tools how Leonardo prefers, Desmond piles up the empty chests by the wall, trying to do whatever he can to be useful, though he doesn't know much about how a workshop is ran.

Another thing the Animus had omitted from him. Part of that had been it being _unnecessary_ information for his training and part of that had been Ezio – though he'd stayed in Leonardo's various workshops often, it was always while teetering on the edge of unease. First it was remorse for using an acquaintance he barely knew and putting them in danger, then it was shame for so many favours owned which he didn't think he could ever repay – and then, Leonardo's preferences reared their head, and the gulf of _unrequited feelings_ appeared in between, making Ezio even more uncomfortable and guilty.

So Ezio had not let himself get fully comfortable with Leonardo's workshops – their doors remained forever open to him, a home away from home, but Ezio had not allowed himself to make use of them for more than was strictly required, strictly business. And so Ezio had never gotten fully acquainted with Leonardo's habits and practices and so Desmond doesn't know them either.

 _Miserable bastards, both of us_ , Desmond thinks and lifts another empty chest to sit on top of another.

"So, Emilio," Salaì says, sidling up to him. "It seems to me we will be working together from now on. Do tell me wher _ever_ did Leonardo find you?"

Desmond looks down to him – Salaì is good head's worth shorter than him, and yet full of interested confidence. He'd seemed like bit of a tramp in Ezio's memories, full of swagger and smug gratification – the way he'd stood up to Ezio and pretty much positioned the man in middle of tavern full of people…

"You said it yourself – at Rosa in Fiore," Desmond says.

"Indeed?" Salaì asks, smiling and leaning in. "How very interesting. That's Florentine I hear in your accent, isn't it? You know what they say about Florentines?"

Desmond arches his brows at that. "No, I don't," he says. "What do they say about Florentines?"

"Salaì! Salaì, come here!" Leonardo's voice snaps out from the back, and Salaì sighs.

"I'll tell you later," he says and gives Desmond a meaningful once-over. "Don't let the Maestro's moods get you down, Emilio. He never can stay mad for long."

Thinking back to what he'd read about Salaì in Shaun's database – _thief, liar, obstinate, glutton_ – Desmond muses that Salaì would know better than anyone, probably. But then Salaì had probably never lied about being the son of Leonard's _dearest_ friend, had he?

Desmond sighs and turns to look at the windows. Sun is about to set and the fortress walls seen through the windows are being painted vivid red by its shade. It's pretty, for a prison. Not quite as magnificent as the view from Abstergo Tower though, is it?

Shaking his head at the memories, Desmond turns. For a moment he putters around the workshop, looking for something to do, some way to make himself helpful, but there's nothing really. Everything has been put away and if something is not where it ought to be, Desmond can't tell.

He spends a moment adjusting a pile of papers with random drawings and notes on them, neatening it for no other reason than because he has nothing better to do. Leonardo's writings, he muses and examines the topmost page. It has some sketches on it, cogwheels and some symbols which look vaguely familiar, maybe part of the whole Pythagorean thing. There's writing on the margin.

_Truth was the only daughter of Time._

Desmond stares at the words for a moment, swallowing. Then he sets the page down and turns away.

It's getting late and it doesn't seem Leonardo wants to deal with him quite yet. Might as well see if he could get some actual rest tonight – chances are he's going to need it.

There are two bedrooms in the workshop – one for Leonardo and one for his assistants, it seems. There's not much in way of furniture in either room – just beds and chests for clothes, and a chamber pot for business and so forth. Compared to the luxury of Rosa in Fiore, it's not much. Definitely better than a bench on a carriage though.

Desmond sinks into the hard, woollen mattress with a sigh, tugging the cowl off before staring to undress the gambeson. He's getting used to wearing there armour – Ezio never really bothered with gambesons, he preferred plate and mail and usually could afford them too… but recruits aren't quite high enough on the rank ladder to afford such luxuries. It wasn't that different from wearing a heavy, somewhat constricting jacket though – if bit on the hotter side.

Dropping the gambeson onto the bed, Desmond stretches out his back and then looks up at the sound of the door opening.

"I have checked the walls and ceilings here," Leonardo says, closing the door behind him. "They are thick here, in the back – the workshop part is newer, recently constructed with thinner walls."

Desmond eyes him for a moment. It's dark – he hadn't bothered to bring a candle and the bedrooms have no windows – and in the shadows Leonardo looks different. He looks serious and grim in a way Ezio had never seen him – he looks almost dangerous.

"I have sent Salaì to fetch us water for washing, much to his grief," Leonardo says serious. "There's no one to overhear us now. Now tell me what you mean. Who are you?"

Desmond swallows, staring at him wordlessly. Shit, he hadn't thought – not _this fast_. He hadn't even sorted out what to say in his head, what was safe to say, how to excuse everything – maybe, maybe he shouldn't have said anything at all. He should've just let Leonardo think that –

Leonardo watches him silently and then asks, his voice quiet and almost plaintive, " _Are_ you Ezio's son?"

He has to lie.

He _can't_ lie.

The best Ezio had ever managed was turning away and not saying anything – and damn, he'd gotten very good at not saying anything. It was easier to pretend he did not know, that he did not see, than acknowledge the eternally uneasy knowledge that he could not, that he was incapable of…

For _years_ Desmond watched Leonardo be hopelessly in love with Ezio, unable to do anything about it while Ezio squirmed infernally in the guilt of it and made himself scarce in the cruel hope that if he was not there, Leonardo could turn his affections elsewhere. Ezio loved Leonardo too, of course – but not like that. And their friendship strained under it until its very end, eaten away by conflicting love and _shame_.

It might have not been years in real life, but it felt like it, every moment of it – and at the end Desmond had inherited _all of it_. Except he's not Ezio – and Leonardo doesn't know him.

And Desmond really is a terrible liar – and getting very tired of lying anyway.

"How do you explain knowledge that doesn't make sense?" he asks and looks down, away from Leonardo's searching eyes. "Or events that… that are impossible?"

"Like the Apple?" the painter asks, perceptive.

"Worse," Desmond says and stares at his hands. He can still feel it under his palm – the Eye, blazing away as it killed him and saved the Earth. "Like the Vault under Vatican."

Leonardo says nothing for a moment, his expression growing alert before he steps closer. He sits, very slow, on the other bed across from Desmond's. "I'd start from the beginning," he says. "Go through events moment by moment. And then I apply reason to their effects."

Desmond breathes in and out and nods. "Okay," he says. "Beginning. Right."

What is the beginning though – is it Altaïr, three hundred years ago? The Farm, five hundred years from now? Abstergo, maybe? Or is it the Vault, two years ago, when Desmond got Minerva's warning through Ezio?

"What have you figured out about the Apple of Eden?" Desmond asks. "About what it is?"

Leonardo frowns a little at that and then leans back, humming. "It is made of metal unlike any humans can produce – hard as steel, harder even, but as light as wood," he says. "The light it emits is without clear source – there is no flame with in it, but rather some other form of… mechanical ignition of illumination, but I could never determine how it functioned. Its effect is more mental than physical – somehow, the light it emits affects the brain of those who see it. In truth, I don't think you even need to see the light, to be affect by it."

Radiation or waves, or something like that, Desmond muses. They never actually studied the actual mechanics of the Apple's on people effect – but that's probably closest to the truth. Some sort of signal that affected human brain matter, anyway.

"And the ones who build it?" Desmond asks, watching the painter, curious of what theorises he might've landed on after Ezio's meeting with Minerva.

Leonardo looks at him. "Why don't you tell me?" he asks and then leans forward, watching him closely. "I think you know more about them than do I."

Desmond shakes his head. "I want to know what you know."

"So that you can build your lies upon my assumptions?" Leonardo asks, inflectionless, his face tight.

Desmond stares at him and then sighs. He's not wrong. "I don't know how to do this," Desmond admits and then runs his hands over his face. "Fuck, I didn't _want_ to do this."

Leonardo's eyes narrow. "Why not?" he asks. "I do not think you are our enemy, you joined the Brotherhood and I know you have fought the Borgia. The treatment you provided for Ezio proves you care. Why not tell the truth?"

"Because it's _hard_ ," Desmond groans and then straightens up. "Okay. Fuck it," he says then. "Seventy five thousand years ago, or thereabouts anyway, there lived a civilisation that predates humanity. We call them the First Civilisation. They didn't come from stars or anything like that – they just evolved before us. They created the pieces of Eden – and Eden was a place, a city of theirs, not really a paradise though. That's why they're called Pieces of Eden – because Eden is where humans stole the first ones. Like the Apple."

Leonardo's mouth opens a little and then snaps it shut again. In the shadows, his eyes look dark, as wide as they are. He doesn't say anything, though – just stares.

"But that's bit beside the point. Their civilisation was destroyed by the Sun," Desmond says and motions upwards, at the ceiling. "I don't know if you've figured out how the Sun works yet – but it's basically an enormous ball of _fire_ million miles away and occasionally the fire flares up. Back then it flared so bad that it burned the world, nearly killing everything on it. Early humans only barely survived – and the few of the First Civilisation who did died soon after. Humans inherited the world."

The painter is still not saying anything – which is probably for best, if he interrupted now, Desmond would probably choke on his own words and _die_.

"The Sun goes through phases, same as most everything else. Seasons, lunar phases, years… cycles," Desmond continues – it's easier now that he's started. "The Sun's cycles can be tens of thousands of years long, it's that old. And the cycle of the flare, which destroyed the First Civilisation, is coming up again. In five hundred years. Five hundred and ten years, almost exactly, give or take a few months."

"The warning," Leonardo mouths, nearly silent and then shakes his head. "You – you really have been to the Vault, then."

"I _came_ from the vault," Desmond says, and waves a hand, still a little annoyed about it. "That's where they, in their infinite wisdom, dropped me. Right in the Vatican Vault."

"They," Leonardo repeats slowly in dawning realisation, like he already knows.

"Jupiter and Minerva," Desmond says. "After I succeeded in saving the world from the Solar Flare – and died in the process."

Leonardo stands up suddenly, his expression nearly wild. "The clothes," he says in realisation. "The _shoes_. I thought their construction was beyond our time, why didn't I pursue the thought – your hidden blade!" he says and rounds up on Desmond. "Show it to me, please?"

Desmond leans back, surprised at the sudden vehemence. Then shrugs and takes it the blade off completely, handing it over. "You should've seen it before I got rid of the Velcro," he says wryly. "That would've blown your mind."

Leonardo gives him a look a then looks the blade over, snapping it out of its sheath. "I thought this metal was too smooth and even," he says and then walks out of the room, getting a candle from the hall and brings it in to examine the blade under its light. "And these seams, they are far too fine. This was not made in a forge powered by human hands or beaten into shape under a hammer."

"What you're looking at is called stainless steel," Desmond says, watching him fondly. "It's an alloy, doesn't rust. It's made mechanically – in big crucibles in factories full of machines. I don't really know about the precise construction, though – sorry."

Leonardo shakes his head. "I think I get your meaning," he says and tilts the blade. "And the surface, it's been treated someway to make it nonreflective?" he asks.

"Matte coating," Desmond agrees. "Makes it easier to hide when it doesn't reflect light. "

"Of course, of course," Leonardo says, nodding, his eyes flicking over the blade. "You wore this, and the strange clothes, when you arrived, did you? But you had to get rid of the clothes because they were _beyond the time_. You – your name, it's not Miles, is it? Nor is it Emilio," he says and turns to look at him. "And you aren't Ezio's son, you never were."

Desmond shakes his head at him, feeling weirdly helpless under that keen eyed stare. Leonardo is really, really clever, isn't he? Almost too clever really. All the struggle Desmond has had against the truth, all the excuses he'd told himself about why he couldn't tell anyone, why he had to pretend to be from this time – and in the end, it's just this easy.

"I'm his great grandson," Desmond admits quietly. "Just with about dozen greats in between. And Miles is my name, actually. It's just that it's my family name," he says and shrugs. "I couldn't very well say the other one because Ezio already knows it… and I was trying to hide."

Leonardo nods at that, slow, as he hands the hidden blade back. His eyes are dark and perceptive in the shadows and they seem to see right through him. "You're _Desmond_ ," Leonardo says in tones of wonder.

Desmond swallows and accepts the blade. How long has it been since he heard his own name? Since his death? Hah. And how fitting, for Leonardo to be the first to say it.

"My name is Desmond Miles," he agrees and straps the blade back around his arm. It flicks out in quiet, satisfying twang of metal, and Desmond smiles wryly at it. "And I'm an Assassin."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp.


	18. Chapter 18

Leonardo doesn't know what to ask first. There are _so many_ questions!

Ezio had told them all about what had happened in the vault under Sistine Chapel – they'd talked about it late into the night, trying to untangle it's meaning. It had been concluded with the simple proclamation that the message had not been intended for them and perhaps they would never understand it, but unlike Ezio Leonardo had not managed to set the wonder aside. The Vatican Vault and the visions Ezio had there, they opened so many questions, confirmed so many theories.

The age of Earth as being older than what the Bible painted it as. Sun, as object of fire as Miles – _Desmond!_ – now says. Ezio had even, after several drinks and even more numerous demands, admitted that yes, in Minerva's moving, glowing painting in the air, Earth had indeed revolved around the Sun – and not the opposite.

But the questions were far more numerous. If Minerva was dead, how could she speak into the future like that? What did she mean, they made humans? What was the war she mentioned? And how could she be speaking to someone other, when Ezio was the only one there? Who and what was Desmond, the invisible phantom whom Ezio anchored, to whom Minerva was really speaking to?

Ezio eventually let the matter lie, shying away from the impossible and preferring to concentrate onto the present. Whatever Desmond was, whatever he represented, it was too strange for Ezio, bless his heart, and since Minerva had absolved him of the necessity of action… he had not. The message was not intended for Ezio – his part had been played. He was perfectly satisfied leaving at that.

Leonardo wasn't – and so he pondered, late into the night on many, many nights. A simile of a god had spoken through Ezio to someone. To whom? Another simile of god, perhaps, one they knew nothing of, one so far removed and so strange that it could see through eyes of men? Perhaps there was object of divinity, like the Apple of Eden but for farseeing, that this Desmond was using? Perhaps somewhere far away, there was a being much like Minerva, who was watching over them?

Desmond is now sitting on a roughly hewn mattress, a borderline captive in enemy strong hold, and he's just a man. But he also isn't. He cannot possibly be.

"How are you here?" Leonardo asks and slowly sits down across from the man, searching his face. Desmond still looks so much like Ezio but there are differences too. Desmond's face is far leaner, his features longer than Ezio, who is somewhat shorter in stature. Desmond's hair is still shorn short, and his chin is now stubble darkly – except for where the scar cuts through his lips. It suits him but it also makes him look even more like Ezio.

"First Civilisation technology," Desmond says and leans back a little, stretching out his long legs. "I don't know how it works, exactly. Jupiter sent me back – and it took even him thousand years to figure out how to do it."

Leonardo swallows, trying to quiet his pounding heart. "Why?" he asks then, trying to desperately keep his questions simple lest they get away from him. "Why are you here?"

"To change the past," Desmond says and shrugs. "And change the future."

Leonardo nods – well, that is frankly rather obvious, but… "You said you succeeded in saving the world," he recalls. "And – died…" he frowns, looking at the younger man over. "You don't look dead."

That makes Desmond grin a little – it's like light being shined onto his features, how it spreads. "I'm not, anymore – Jupiter undid it. It was… complicated," he says and looks down at his knees for a moment. "I saved the world, yeah, at the cost of my own life, but the result wasn't… it wasn't good," he says and the smile wears off as quickly as it appeared. "There's another member of the First Civilisation out there – Juno. When I saved the world, I basically handed it over to her on a silver platter."

Leonardo shakes his head at that, not understanding – though the guilt and grief on Desmond's face are very honest and very real. "I assume Juno did not mean well for the world, then."

"It depends on your point of view. Templars probably would be all for it," Desmond mutters and looks up. "She's going to enslave humanity. There's a thing the Pieces of Eden can do – especially the Apples. You know how well they affect humans, how they tamper with our minds?"

Leonardo nods slowly. "Yes, it's really remarkable how compatible we are with their effect."

"It's what they were designed for – what we were designed for," Desmond explains grimly. "The first Civilisation sped up our evolution to make use of us and the Pieces of Eden were tools of out enslavement. They made us susceptible to them on purpose, to control us better."

"Evolution," Leonardo repeats slowly, as things slot into their places in the plethora of unknown variables in his head.

"It's how species' develop over time, through breeding and mutation and… environmental factors, stuff like that," Desmond says, waving his hand as if trying to wrap the subject up in a bubble. "Our ancestors were apes that, bit by bit over many millennia changed, became smarter and stuff. Then the First Civilisation took our ancestors and fiddled with them until you got… us," he motions between them. "Made in their image."

Leonardo opens his mouth and then snaps it shut. "You will… have to explain that with more detail later," he says faintly and runs a hand over his forehead, knocking the beret askew. Evolution. Good God – is that some new level of heresy. "And Juno would have used the Pieces of Eden to enslave us again?"

Desmond says nothing for a moment. "When you use the Pieces of Eden on people, something… happens," he says then. "There's a… transfer of energy – I don't know how to explain it in words that will make sense to you. Human brain produces an power on it's own – human thoughts are like lightning. Does that make sense?"

"A little, perhaps," Leonardo admits, though a little dubiously. He's dissected many human brains and learned lot from them – but lightning? Perhaps in metaphysical sense, all thoughts are energetic, all ideas and notions have power of their own, but… he's certain Desmond means it in more physical sense.

"When you have enough people under the thrall of the Pieces of Eden, you can do something with that power," Desmond says, watching him closely, as if to make sure he's keeping up. "You can make thoughts become reality. And not just temporarily either – it can have real effect on the world."

Leonardo shakes his head at that. "That's… a little fantastical but I will for now take your word for it," he says.

"In my time, humans number in billions," Desmond says quietly and looks down. "I think the estimate for total human population 16th century is around five hundred million? There's over ten times as many of us in our time."

Now that is a little too far fetches. "Surely not," Leonardo says faintly. "You would have to turn the whole world into farm fields to feed that many people!"

Desmond glances up and then laughs. "Mechanised farming," he says. "Crop fertilisation, irrigation – pesticides… And we have better food crops too, I think. Sure, there is still starvation in some places, but that's more to do with governments and politics – and money – than us lacking the ability to produce enough food for everyone."

Leonardo shakes his head in wonder. All these _things_ he's saying, like they're nothing! If he wasn't sitting down, he'd probably be swaying, his head is spinning so badly. "And – and if Juno gained control of such a number of people…"

Desmond shrugs. "It wouldn't be good," he says. "In my time we're bit more advanced than we were back in their times too, I think – technology wise. If Juno got the right people under her control, with their hands on the right weapons…" he trails off and then shakes his head. "It would've been bad, anyway. And that's why I'm here – we couldn't allow it."

Leonardo swallows, trying to get his thoughts into order. "And you're here to change the past – how?" he asks, trying to put it all into context. "By changing what happens here? Changing Ezio's, your ancestor's, past?"

"It was more a coincidence than anything that I ended up here – and maybe the fact that I know this time bit better. I'm here to speed up technological advancement," Desmond explains. "Introduce technology that didn't get fully developed until centuries later."

"… You mean aviation," Leonardo guesses and Desmond nods. "But how will that prevent the Juno from re-awakening?"

"If humans start working on manned flight right now, then, by the time the Solar Flare happens, they'll be in well established space," Desmond says calmly, as if he wasn't speaking of completely _impossible_ things. "Last time – my time – the only way to save the world was to use First Civilisation's technology, their Grand Temple – which released Juno into the world. This way, if I get this right… humanity will be able to save themselves. And Juno will remain imprisoned."

"Space," Leonardo repeats faintly and runs a shaking hand over his beard. "You mean, outside Earth. Humans going beyond this realm. How would that be possible, how _would_ that be possible?"

"They _fly_ ," Desmond says and grins awkwardly. "Granted with bit more power than just wings, but still. Even if I get everything right here, it won't happen in a long while, but it will happen eventually. It did _before_ my time. The first orbital launch was in 1957, the first living creature in space followed that same year. First man on space 1961. First man on the moon," he motions up at the rafters, and sky for above them – and the moon, far above the sky. "1969. With any luck I'll get that all to happen a little earlier. Just a century earlier will do."

For a long moment Leonardo just stares at him in wordless wonder. He's painting such fantastic, impossible pictures in Leonardo's mind, such incredible scenes. Future was… it had always been such elusive vague thing so far away, utterly unfathomable – but Desmond is speaking of it as if it is not only assured but also _malleable_.

"Men on the moon," Leonardo repeats faintly. "The _things_ you speak of."

Desmond gives him a look. "After the Apple of Eden and the Vault, is that really so weird?"

 _Yes_ , Leonardo thinks and shakes his head again looking away, thinking hard. "In your time, everyone knows the universe is not Geocentric, but Heliocentric," he murmurs, trying to imagine such a world.

"It's neither," Desmond says and Leonardo looks up sharply. The young man shrugs. "Everything revolves around something, including the Sun, which revolves around the core of the Milky Way Galaxy – which is all the starts you can see, and lot you can't. There is no central point the universe revolves around – it's just not really a thing at all."

Leonardo's mouth opens, closes, he stops to think what about that sentence he wants to know more about. But in the end, the whole concept is so strange and so sudden, he can hardly grasp it now. "And everyone knows this in your time," he says weakly. "This is common knowledge?"

Desmond shrugs at that, looking a little self-conscious. "We've had a bit more time to figure things out, and develop machines to help us," he admits. "And how we go about teaching goes a bit differently too."

Leonardo rises to his feet and paces the short length of the small bedroom to and fro a couple of times. "Your Aviation Codex," he says. "That's your mission, to write it?"

"It's just how I started. I don't know how to go about the rest yet," Desmond admits quietly. "There's so much to do. If I can just get enough people thinking about it now, that alone might be enough to get things started."

Leonardo hums at that, thinking, wondering. Then he turns to look at him. "What about your medicinal knowledge?" he asks, a little confused. "How does that factor in?"

Desmond laughs. "It doesn't – that's just stuff _I know_ ," he says. "Some of it's just common knowledge – some of it comes from what little training in medicine I have."

"And – and humans being mostly made of water?" Leonardo asks, a little wary now.

"Again, it's just common knowledge," Desmond says, and gives him an amused, almost sheepish look. "I'm sorry, I know it's all a bit much, but it really is something pretty much everyone knows in my time. Like said, we've had more time to figure stuff out."

"And technology to help you," Leonardo murmurs, wondering. "I would very much like to get hands on all of your technology, please."

"If anyone could handle, it'd be you," Desmond agrees fondly.

Leonardo looks away – when Desmond does that, he looks startlingly like Ezio. Which reminds him, "When Minerva spoke to Ezio – spoke to _you_ through him… how were you listening?" he asks. "Do people of the future have ways to divine the past?"

Desmond hesitates at that, biting at the scar on his lower lip in thought. "Okay, how do I explain this?" he murmurs and then leans forward. "In future there's a machine that lets descendants recall the lives of their ancestors. It's derivation of the First Civilisation technology, I think, though I'm not sure how it was developed. I didn't build it, I just used it," he says and shrugs. "Blood remembers. And Ezio is my ancestor. One of many."

"You've… recalled Ezio's past?" Leonardo asks faintly. "All of it?"

"Lot of it," Desmond admits and taps at his temple. "I became an Assassin watching him and reliving his memories."

"So… you weren't there," Leonardo murmurs, trying to make sense of it. "Except in memory? I don't…" he trails off and strokes at his beard, trying to grasp onto any bit of sense in it all. "Is that the function of blood, then, to remember?"

Desmond laughs, hanging his head, and Leonardo throws him a scowl. "No, I'm sorry – no," Desmond says and almost giggles as he runs a hand over his face, sounding a little hysterical. "Not blood, exactly, it's… stuff you don't know about yet. Building blocks of what makes living things what they are – instructions on how we're made. It's in everything that makes a human body – including blood. Genetic information."

"I don't understand that word," Leonardo admits, a little frustrated and agitated. It's all starting to be a bit too much now, so many new fantastical concepts and not enough time to really understand any of them

"Neither do I most days," Desmond laughs weakly against his palm and looks up, eyes twinkling in the darkness with strange, miserable humour. "It's about how kids look like their parents, how sometimes grandkid has their grandparents features – information on how people are made, passed down from parent to child, written into every tiny bit of their bodies. Along the line, I inherited the information from Ezio. I really don't know how to explain it better."

Leonardo blows out a breath. "Then I will again have to take your word for it," he mutters and looks away. He's starting to see why Desmond had tried to hide it all – if he tried to say any of this in broad day light, the mere passers by would try to hang him for heresy. Even Leonardo is having hard time believing any of this, and he has proof in the Apple.

But what to do about this? Miles as they had thought him as in the hands of Borgia was bad enough, but _Desmond_ … Desmond is a far worse thing all together! Not only does he have the knowledge of flight and great machinery, but he knows the future – and he knows things of the First Civilisation and the Pieces of Eden that no one else does yet.

Leonardo looks to the young man, searching his features. The man whose Prophet Ezio was. Leonardo hardly believes in the Christian God – and the old Roman Gods are now all proven to have been creatures of flesh and blood too. Desmond is no god either, not with the sorry mess he'd made of all of this. All the lies and avoidance. Only humans can be so irrational.

"When you get the chance, you must tell Ezio all of this," Leonardo says and then amends. "Or as much as he can understand. You must tell him you're not his son. You cannot let the Auditore family believe things that aren't true, it's too cruel."

Desmond's expression grows guilty at that. "I know," he says and looks away, hanging his head low. "I'll tell them, I promise."

It will be a little like stealing a son from them – but better that to happen now, than for them to live in that false belief for years and _then_ learn the truth, Leonardo thinks and considers the young man. There's an expression of sincere grief and regret on his face and Leonardo shakes his head. "If you care for them, you will be honest with them."

Desmond nods, clasping his hands and staring at them miserably. "Maria will hate me," he whispers and his expression twitches in real pain.

"Madonna Maria is kinder than that," Leonardo says and then looks up as he hears a door, opening and closing. Salaì, judging by the angry stomping of feet. "You must escape from here," Leonardo says, making a face. "As soon as possible. The Borgia might've never had you – but if they learn of you now…"

Desmond shakes his head. "It won't be easy. This place is well guarded and far away – even if I'd make it outside, chances of me making back to Rome are kind of slim," he admits. "I don't know the land well."

"But you know where we are?" Leonardo asks.

"I've seen it in Ezio's memories. Monte Circeo – it's on the coast."

Leonardo frowns – Ezio had been here? No, Ezio… _would_ be here? "I know the place," he murmurs and looks at him. "He is coming here?"

"He did at your request, after you finished the tank," Desmond says. "But that's months away, isn't it?"

Leonardo opens his mouth and then stops when the door is wrenched open and Salaì quickly looks into the room, making them both startle and look up. Salaì's expression goes from eager to disappointed to annoyed in quick succession – so Leonardo can guess what he was expecting to find.

"Salaì," Leonardo says, slow.

"I have delivered the water, o Maestro, at your oh so genial request," Salaì says and smoothes out the front of his doublet. "And now, if you're done wasting my time… I'm going to bed."

"Salaì –" Leonardo says again, half rising from the bed where he is sitting.

" _Good night_ , Maestro," Salaì says very firmly and then slams the door as he goes, making Leonardo wince.

Desmond looks at the door and arches his brow at Leonardo. "I think he means to take _your_ bed," he points out.

"Oh, let him," Leonardo says and sinks back down with a groan. "This day has been terrible enough and I don't feel like arguing with him – I'll leave that until tomorrow, when I'm better rested and in sound state of mind again"

"I'm sorry," Desmond says awkwardly and winces.

"It's hardly your fault," Leonardo says dismissively. "Except for the lies maybe." He sighs heavily and then looks at the younger man, who stares back at him with mixture of guilt and shame. He's very young – not quite as young as Salaì and less wilful by far, but young nonetheless. Rather young to be carrying the fate of the world on his shoulders – never mind the guilt that came from trying to manage it.

Leonardo looks away, and shakes his head. "You being here, in this fortress, is not your doing – it's mine," he says quietly.

"You didn't know the Borgia would kidnap us," Desmond objects.

"I should have," Leonardo says and closes his eyes. He hasn't even told Ezio this yet, but… "I offered my services to Cesare willingly at first," he admits quietly. "It was before the attack on Monteriggioni – I assume you know about it?"

Desmond's lips part and then he presses them together again and nods, silent.

"Cesare Borgia seemed… more reasonable, then. A newly instated military commander, full of new ideas and vigour – very interested in applying new methods, no matter how strange or unorthodox," Leonardo murmurs. "I was without a patron and I needed the work and I thought under Cesare I could build great things. And I thought the fighting over the Apple was over, that it had ended when Ezio attacked the Vatican and let Rodrigo live. I thought…"

He thought Ezio had retired from world of action and the time of the Assassin was over. He thought there was peace between the Assassins and Templars, and the world could finally resume without that shadowy war hanging over them all.

"I thought you were a pacifist," Desmond says quietly.

Leonardo glances at him and then away. "Once upon a time, perhaps. I still hold no fondness for warfare, but…" He trails away with a sigh. "In any case, my willing servitude eventually became forced, when I heard of the Monteriggioni attack and when Cesare brought me the Apple, and I knew how it came to his hands. After that it was only matter of time when my presence would be demanded at sword point. I should have expected it."

Desmond says nothing for a moment, watching him. "Well, however it came to this," he says, and there is no judgement in his voice. "We're in a pickle now, aren't we?"

Leonardo frowns, surprised. He'd expected censure. He's not sure even Ezio would've forgiven him. "In a pickle?" he asks, hesitant. "I assume that's an idiom?"

"It means to be in difficult situation," Desmond says and laughs, shaking his head. "Sorry. What are we going to do, though? Wait for an opportunity to escape?" he asks then. "You work for them – can you even escape?"

Leonardo hums and thinks about it. "I don't know," he says. "Salaì and I, we're no fighters. If we tried to escape together, we'd only be a hindrance to you. You would have better luck alone."

"I'm not going to _leave_ you here," Desmond says firmly. "You can just forget it."

Leonardo looks up to him and then down at his hands, smiling a little. Well, at least the Chosen One is kind, he thinks. "In that case I suppose we will have to wait and see and hope that opportunity presents itself," he says. "If you are willing to play the part of my assistant in the mean while… we will bide our time for now, while I design their war machine."

"I think I can manage it," Desmond promises, watching him warily. "Are you alright with it, though? With me?" After all the lies, he means.

Leonardo nods. "I could hardly leave you to your own devices now," he says and gives a look. He doubts the man would go spouting his knowledge at Borgia guards willy-nilly – he had tried to hide it all for a good reason. Regardless… he'd gone very poorly about it. "We must take care, however," Leonardo says, cautious but firm. "Play our part and watch our words."

For some reason, Desmond sighs at that. "Alright. I'll shut up and keep my head down," he promises and mutters, almost bitter, "I'm good at that, if nothing else."

Leonardo tilts his head. It sounds like wealth of history, he thinks, and it doesn't sound the gentle sort. "Well I wouldn't wish for you to be completely silent," he says and leans in a little. "I have still so many questions, I don't even know where to begin. So many things that must be common knowledge to you, I don't even know what to ask! I want to know _everything_."

Desmond glances at him and then coughs, awkward. "Gravity," he says then and when Leonardo blinks in confusion Desmond explains; "The reason why the Earth revolves around the Sun – gravity. The same thing that makes objects fall, just… on a lot bigger scale." The young man trails off and offers a little smile. "You wondered about it once, so…."

"Oh," Leonardo whispers and leans in. He hardly remembers it, but he thinks it was back when Ezio had first produced the Apple in his presence. Desmond had seen that too? "Then why doesn't the Earth just get sucked _into_ the Sun?"

"Because it's in motion," Desmond explains, his smile growing warmer and more confident. It suits him beautifully – far better than the guilt and shame. Then Desmond continues, "The Earth – and all the planets – are flying through space so fast that though the Sun is constantly pulling us in, we're sort of falling _around_ it rather than into it…"

Leonardo listens, utterly enthralled, and it's a long time before either of then remembers to actually get some rest that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *pushes Desmond and Leonardo together* Now kiss!


	19. Chapter 19

 

A day passes – then another… and another.

There is no sign of Miles or Leonardo, not a whisper of where the Borgia might've secreted them to. Though Claudia puts her best girls to seducing the highest official, though Ezio recruits the aid of La Volpe and even Bartolomeo and Pantasilea… there is no sign of them. Wherever the Borgia are keeping Leonardo and his newest project, they tend to keep it a secret.

"In slightly better news," Machiavelli says while Ezio paces the length of his office. "If they knew they had Miles and his knowledge, that we would know about it by now."

"How so?" Ezio demands. "We didn't know before."

"They would take the wanted posters down, for one," Machiavelli says, motioning to one he has pinned on the wall. "And stop looking for him, for the other. And they are still looking for him."

Ezio shakes his head at that – though it is good news. Where ever Miles is, he has managed to hide himself from his captors somehow – by pretending to be Leonardo's assistant, Ezio hopes, and not because he's lying dead in a ditch. Neither Maria nor Claudia would ever forgive either him or Leonardo if that was the fate that befell Miles.

Machiavelli watches him pacing for a moment and then leans back in his seat. "Explain to me again why you suspect that he might be your son," he says. "Disregarding the similarity of appearance and the accent."

"They are not proof enough?" Ezio demands.

"Many men have look-alikes," Machiavelli says flatly. "I have seen more than half a dozen cases of near identical men standing in place of their patrons, painting targets on their own backs while their masters hide from assassins' blades. Miles looks like you, yes, but that might be nothing but coincidence. At this point it might even be engineered."

"You still think the Borgia produced him from nothing to replace me?" Ezio scoffs. "After all of this?"

"All of what?" Machiavelli asks. "All I know is that your mother and your sister have been drawn into the theory of a blood relation – and now the boy is conveniently missing."

Ezio looks at him from under the edge of his hood, frustrated and little insulted. "After all this time, Machiavelli, now you distrust my word?"

"You have not given me your word,'" Machiavelli says. "You have not once said it yet. All you have said is that you suspect it, that your family believes it. Do you think he is your son? Give me your firm word and I will believe you."

Ezio looks away at that and continues his frustrated pacing.

"I am only trying to make sense of it and approach the matter with an open mind, Ezio – and you have to admit, the story has grown all too complicated and convenient," Machiavelli says. "And if he was your son and always knew it – why the lies?"

Why indeed.

Over the many years as Assassin Ezio had seen thousand men lie in thousand different ways. Miles is neither the best nor the worst liar he has seen – but he is the strangest. Never has Ezio seen a liar so guilty for his lies, so uneasy about them. And the thing is… even after he'd cried into Maria's arms and what seemed like the truth had came out, that guilt had not quite left Miles. It still lurked there, behind his eyes, when he looked at the Auditore.

It had been there when Miles had treated him, almost smothered under his competence but still ever present. When Maria called him Grandson, when Claudia called him nephew, Miles felt guilt.

The suspicion is still there and Ezio has a nagging feeling he's _close_ to the truth, he tapped onto something that struck a trembling chord on Miles – but it's not exact. He's still missing something. And the knowledge from the Apple and the boy's evasiveness only made it worse.

"He's family," Ezio says. "Of that I'm certain."

"How?" Machiavelli asks, watching him over the spread of papers on his desk.

"I know an Auditore when I see one," Ezio harrumphs and then adds in a mutter. "And when I get ordered around by one. The boy fits into my family like he's always been there. He is one of us."

"Such things can be learned and trained for. You yourself trained in similar arts with the courtesans of Florence," Machiavelli points out.

"You think my sister and my mother would not see through courtesan's skills?" Ezio asks, giving him a look. "You can't fool my sister's mind in such things… and you can't fool my mother's heart in matters of family."

Machiavelli says nothing to that for a moment, watching him seriously with dark, grim eyes. Then he nods. "I will grant you that," he says. "But you still do not claim him as your son."

Ezio meets his eyes steadily for a while, pressing his lips tight together. While there remains guilt in Miles' eyes, doubt will linger in Ezio's heart. It makes sense, it explains everything, really, but still… Miles still had difficulty meeting his eyes, even when treating him and nagging him to lie still.

It might be guilt of a son lying to his father – or might be guilt of a man lying _about_ his father. It wouldn't be the first time Ezio had seen such things – some nobles had people claiming to their bastards all the time in hopes of gaining entrance to higher society and all its wealth and fortune. Only, Ezio doesn't know what Miles would gain from such lies – except freedom from further questioning.

He'd hoped to talk with Miles, sort it out and then, at the end of it, lay his doubts to rest and claim the boy as his own, but now… now the doubt is there, and livelier than before. In absence of those so very similar features and all the reason to believe their origins… he wonders. Had he imagined it after all?

"Ezio," Machiavelli insists. "Is the boy your son?"

Miles had never said it, Ezio thinks and looks away. The words had never passed his lips, as far as Ezio knows. He did not call Claudia Aunt or Maria Grandmother. People had done it for him, and he had not objected. And so the doubt mounts and mounts…

"Will you withdraw your aid in searching him if I say yes, if I say no?" Ezio asks, looking at the door instead of the Mentor.

"No," Machiavelli says. "Whatever he is, his knowledge is too dangerous to left in such risk – the sooner he is out of Borgia hands, the better."

"Then I will make no distinction," Ezio says and looks at Machiavelli over his shoulder. "I don't know Machiavelli. I meant to question him about it, about his mother, his origins, where he grew up, but…" but then Miles disappeared.

"Hmm," Machiavelli answers, watching him steadily. "We will find him," he says then. "Sooner or later – eventually Maestro da Vinci's machine, whichever he is building this time, will be finished and launched and then if not sooner we will know where they are kept. Until then, Ezio… you need rest, my friend."

"I will not stop searching for him," Ezio snaps at him. "Don't even suggest it."

"I'm not," Machiavelli says. "But you are still injured – you wince as you walk," he points out and Ezio grimaces. Machiavelli shakes his head. "You need to take time to recover or you might make it worse. Let the rest of us do the work for now."

"Is that your way of telling me to get out of your office?" Ezio asks, wryly amused.

"If I want you out of my office, I will tell you to get out of my office," Machiavelli says and sighs, looking at him. "Ezio –" he stops in middle of what he's meaning to say and motions to the door. "You are increasingly vital to our Brotherhood and none of us wish to see you running yourself to the ground. Please, for all of us – _rest_ and give yourself the time to heal."

Ezio tsks at that and turns his head away. "I am healing," he mutters and smothers the urge to rub at his side. He hadn't been able to yet don his belt or sash properly – the weight around his waist was too much to handle against the burn – but he could walk and move better now. It didn't hurt so much… when he didn't stretch his arm up anyway. Or move too suddenly.

"You'll heal better if you stop pacing around," Machiavelli says and turns to his papers. "You will be the first to know when _anyone_ knows _anything_ , I promise you. Now go and rest. Or if you must do something, then go mind your students."

Ezio draws a breath to argue and then sighs. "Yes, Mentor," he mutters and then turns to the door. "But if by the time I am well again we have nothing to go on, I will go after the Borgia," he says firmly. "Alone if I must."

Machiavelli looks up. "Never alone, Ezio," he says seriously. "The Brotherhood is with you."

Ezio nods at that and then steps out of the office, sighing as the door closes after him. He'd been successfully ignoring the pain but now that it was brought up, the burn's constant pulsing ache rears its head again. And it only makes him feel slightly guiltier.

Thanks to Miles' odd treatment with honey, the wound had not gotten worse, and in his absence they had continued treating it with honey and aloe successfully. Ezio had even shown it to a doctor – the same doctor, in fact, whom Miles had gone to for his odd wound treatment with stomach medicine. The man had been forced to admit that, somehow, the honey was not making the wound worse – though the man had refused to credit it making the wound better either.

The man had suggested leeches to ease the swelling of the wound and Ezio had decided that the combined expertise of Miles da Firenze and Leonardo da Vinci won over the opinion of doctor he knew nothing about – he would have no leeches, _thank you_.

Thinking back to it, Ezio wanders idly down the stairs from Machiavelli's office to the main hall. He'd heard more about Miles' strange knowledge from Claudia, later – " _The boy has flying machines in his head_ ," she'd said and showed him some of the paper birds and planes Miles had made. " _His mind is so stuffed full of these things, it has left him confused_."

And perhaps that was why Miles lied and so badly – he was confused, his mind addled with the use of the Apple… maybe it explained everything. He had seemed so confused at times, so lost. But not… not in a way that made it seem he did not know what was going on.

Damn it, Ezio really wishes he would've stayed and _talked_ with Miles before. Perhaps that way…

"Master," a soft female voice greets him and Ezio looks up. Beatrice and Luciana are just coming from upper floor where the bedrooms are, Luciana stretching her arms while Beatrice adjusts her gauntlets – judging by the looks of it, they're heading to spar.

"Ser Ezio," Luciana greets him as well, her voice deeper and warmer as she nods her head. Like Beatrice she too is now wearing gambeson, hood, breeches and hose – though judging by the way she still adjusts the waist and tugs at the short hem of the gambeson, she's not quite yet used to the lack of a bodice and skirts.

"Ladies," Ezio says, smiling a little. She might not be used to it, but she looks good in it – as does Beatrice. Something about capable women in armour… "Heading to the training room?"

"We thought we'd spar a little," Luciana says and gives her fellow recruit a smile. "Beatrice is going to show me how she can throw a man twice her weight over her shoulder."

Ezio opens his mouth to offer to play a part in displaying the trick – but then remembers the wound and sighs. "I will join you – to watch only," he says when they both open their mouths to argue. "Machiavelli has already given me a speech of taking care, you don't need to bother. I only want to see how you do."

He motions them to go ahead and after a shared look they nod and turn to the training room, Ezio following them and hoping this distraction might be enough to take his mind off things for a moment.

There's nothing more they at Tiber Island can do. With Ezio so badly out of commission and Beatrice and Luciana still a little too new to their arts, he can only rely on Machiavelli's spies, Claudia's girls and La Volpe's thieves for information and progress. Soon though, soon he'd send the girls out.

While Ezio sits down on a bench on the side of the training room, Beatrice and Luciana check their gear and then spread out the carpets onto the floor, which Ezio has used when teaching Beatrice how to tumble, and which Beatrice is now using to show Luciana how to do the same. Once the floor has been sufficiently cushioned, they turn to him.

"Go on," he says, waving a hand. "I'm only watching." And he is curious about how Beatrice would go about teaching this. If more senior recruits could be used to train their juniors, he might have leeway to expand their numbers quicker than first planned. Ezio personally doesn't have the time to train many at once, one or two is most he can manage to sufficient degree. But if Beatrice and later Luciana could manage it…

His first student for once shows little signs of being nervous – but then, this is her element. Beatrice simply nods and turns to Luciana. "Come at me," she says while taking a slightly wider stance, dropping her weight lower. "Arms outstretched like you're going to grab me – I'm then going to throw you into the carpet."

"Well that sounds exciting," Luciana says with a pretty smile and then, after sizing Beatrice up, she launches forward.

Beatrice was already a good fighter when Ezio found her, but she's become a better one since. La Volpe had taught her sleight of hand and now Claudia – and Luciana herself – have taught her distraction and diversion. The move she does is little like her initial brawling movements and has now the grace of a dancer, how she twists into Luciana, grabs her outstretched, and then twists around and rolls her fellow recruit over her shoulders, slamming her into the carpet.

It's not _precisely_ how Ezio taught Beatrice to do the move, though – how Beatrice does it is much more contained, and she doesn't kick Luciana's feet from under her like Ezio had shown. How interesting.

"Oufh," Luciana exhales, grinning and not quite as winded as she might've been had Beatrice gone all out on her – but definitely feeling the impact. "That was – faster than I thought. How did you do that?"

"By using your own weight and momentum," Beatrice says, holding out her hand to her. "Apparently, it's all about _physics_."

"All about what?" Luciana asks, laughing confusedly and accepting her hand, letting herself be pulled up to her feet.

"That's what Miles said, anyway," Beatrice says and then glances at Ezio guiltily. "We, uh. We used to spar together often here. He showed me some moves I didn't know – like that one."

Ezio strokes his fingers over his goatee, thinking about it. He'd watched Miles spar with Beatrice often enough to know that Miles is better at it and not only because he is bigger than her in all aspects. Miles has technique and discipline in his fighting style that wasted no movement. He fights like those oriental showmen Ezio had once seen in Venice, doing a mock fight for the pleasure of the carnival goers.

"What else did you learn from Miles, Beatrice?" Ezio asks curiously.

"Some other similar throws," Beatrice says, thinking back to it. "How to trip a man who has hold of me, how to break their hold, that sort of thing. And he showed me how to fight simultaneously with a knife and hidden blade, but I admit I am not very good at it yet. And he showed me how to disarm someone with a musket they are aiming at me, though I don't really know how useful that is in an actual fight."

Ezio hums in interest. "Please, show me," he says.

Beatrice exchanges looks with Luciana and then goes to get the wooden practice weapons. While Luciana sits beside Ezio, Beatrice starts running through the moves Miles had apparently shown her – how to stab or deflect with one blade while swinging with the other.

It brings the scene back to Ezio's mind – how he'd seen Miles the first time. Dressed in peasant's garb, taking number of armed and armoured guards single-handedly and without any hesitation or even breaking a sweat. Back then, Ezio had thought, _he's good, he has skill_. Now, thinking back to it… Miles wasn't merely good.

Is a point Machiavelli's favour, or is there an explanation for it? Miles couldn't have learned such things in while Borgia prisoner, surely? He could have learned them on his own – Ezio himself had learned to fight in streets of Florence, learned to scale its roofs and walls in action. There are a lot of similarities there, in how Miles fought and how Ezio had learned… but there were also differences.

Miles did not fight like common brawler who learned how just for survival – like Beatrice had in the beginning. He had none of her earlier failings or flaws, none of her wasted movements or awkward overreaching. His method on battlefield was constrained and precise.

And so was his methods of teaching apparently, Ezio muses, watching Beatrice do things he had never taught her – things he himself could not do, but Miles apparently could.

He should have paid more attention to it, Ezio thinks and smothers a grimace. When his suspicions had been roused he'd looked away instead, looked inward, leaving it to Beatrice to walk Miles through their skills and habits while he searched answers from his memories, trying to recall women that might have hid this from him, incidents that could have led to it. And _still_ he isn't sure. What a waste.

He should've looked instead at what was in front of him.

"We will find him," Luciana says beside him and Ezio turns to her, frowning. She smiles, compassionate and kind and exceedingly pretty under her grey hood. "We will get your son back."

 _If he is my son I will be glad of it_ , Ezio thinks and looks up to Beatrice again. _And if he isn't_ …

"Thank you, Beatrice," Ezio says and leans back, to rest his weight against the cool wall at his back. "You may continue showing your moves to Luciana. I apologise for interrupting."

"It is no trouble, Master," Beatrice nods and with another compassionate smile thrown at Ezio, Luciana stands up to join her again. As they continue the session, Beatrice showing Luciana how to perform the throw she'd shown before, Ezio sighs and lets his mind wander as he gingerly rubs at his aching side.

Miles had glowed blue in his vision and Claudia and Maria had both looked at him and seen family. It had made sense, it had seemed like enough proof. Now, now there are only doubts. And his thoughts circle around them like carrion birds and he cannot get them to stop.

Ezio watches the women fight for a while, trying to let it distract him until he knows it will not and then he stands up. They pause for a moment to look at him expectantly, but Ezio waves them to continue. "You have matters well in hand, Beatrice," he says. "Please continue as you will."

"Yes, Master," Beatrice says, though looking worried, and with another wave Ezio turns to leave while the women continue sparing.

Soon, he'd start sending Beatrice out on her own, Ezio thinks – she's more than ready. And Luciana would well enough at her side; with her background at Rosa in Fiore she hardly needs more training in thievery or sleight of hand. All Luciana lacks is combat and movement training and that she would get at Beatrice's side. They are as ready as Ezio can make them, at his state. More ready than he'd been, when he'd launched into his first assassination at age far younger and far stupider than theirs.

Still, if he could spar with them now, show Luciana what she needed to know, they'd be ready faster. Never mind that it would make him feel leagues better about himself. As he is right now, he's useless.

Restless and irritated at his own injury, Ezio wanders around the hideout for a moment before ending up in the armoury, considering the armour on display. He's already decided that better armour would be bestowed on recruits as they advanced in ranks – and thus, in difficulty of their tasks. They would have to start selecting the armour, soon. Gauntlets, pauldrons – especially if Beatrice's skill at throwing people would catch on – cuisses, greaves… Thankfully they still have some of the old armoury left from Fabio Orsini who had given them their headquarters – for now, they would do.

The girls might need some specifically made for them, however– their stature being very different from Orsini's men… And of course, should either of them ever attain the rank of Assassin, Ezio would have their robes tailored and fitted perfectly, like Machiavelli had his… it was only right.

But that's far into the future now. There are so many things to worry about before then. So many concerns to take care of, just as soon as his damn burn heals.

Sighing Ezio shakes his head at himself and looks away armour displays – his eyes landing on Leonardo's machines instead. There's the machine gun model, all that is now left of the carriage of destruction Ezio had burned himself on, may its pieces _rot_. Beside it on another display table sits the flying machine – surrounded, Ezio finds, by paper planes.

Miles, of course.

Chuckling despite himself, Ezio walks over to examine them. There are several different sorts of paper planes on the table, surrounding Leonardo's much larger flying machine model like baby birds their mother. It's almost endearing.

Family or enemy, Assassin or Templar, whichever Miles truly is… one can't deny that he is very obvious about where his true interests lie.


	20. Chapter 20

 

Of all the things one might expect from working under constant watch of Borgia guards while more or less trapped in _Leonardo da Vinci's_ workshop day in and day out… boredom really shouldn't be one of them. But that's what Desmond find himself with, mostly. Boredom. There's just… not really all that much to do for him.

Leonardo is busy sketching out his designs most of the time, trying to both make them good and clear for the overseer who is constantly breathing down the poor man's neck – as well as sabotage his own work in a way that makes it seem both believable and hides the fact that it is indeed being sabotaged. The man's own competence works against him, Desmond figures – Leonardo already knows how to make the tank perfectly, he has it all figured out in his head, and putting a failed prototype on paper is hard for him.

"The best I can do is make the gears work against each other," Leonardo admits him the second night, after day of feverish drawing and stress – during which time Desmond and Salaì had done little more than watch and worry. "So that if it is constructed as it is shows in the design, it will be entirely un-manoeuvrable… But all the other parts of the construction come from my earlier works – I cannot sabotage the cannons when they already know how to build the right."

"They have the designs for the cannons already – I thought Ezio destroyed them?" Desmond asks quietly.

"The machine gun and the fire cannon, yes – but there were others," Leonardo admits with a sigh and rubs at his wrist. "I only bring to Ezio the most dangerous of my works, but I can't bother him with every detail."

Leonardo has to show his work at every turn – the overseer visits periodically to peer over it and make sure Leonardo is indeed working. Every night, Leonardo is forced to eat with the man as well, something which Salaì is quietly jealous off because Leonardo thus eats better than his lowly assistant, but for which Desmond kind of feel sorry for. Leonardo definitely doesn't enjoy it.

The man is slowly but steadily being driven to the ground by the work, by the constant spying through the windows and the constant check up – every sketch and piece of writing gets scrutinized and everything questioned. Apparently, the Borgia are familiar with the man's easy lapses into procrastination – and so they're not giving him a chance to try it now, leaving him barely with room to breathe.

And in comparison, Desmond and Salaì… they have barely anything to do. Salaì doesn't know engineering and can't write, so most he can do is maybe sketch out Leonardo's designs in more detail at his haphazard diction – Desmond can write and do engineering, but he can't draw, and Leonardo doesn't let him anyway.

"Your knowledge here is too dangerous, better keep it within," Leonardo murmurs.

So, most Desmond can do is fetch and carry for Leonardo, tidy up the shop at the end of the day, and that's pretty much it. His most important task ends up being changing chamber pots and fetching water. Not quite the renaissance artistic luxury one might've expected. But he's used to _not doing enough_ under watchful eyes.

Salaì, though…

"I am going mad here," Salaì grumbles, not for the first time, while Leonardo pours over another enormous sheet of paper, sketching out the many gears that went into the wheels of the tank. "I have never been so bored in my life. Emilio, entertain me."

"Sorry, I got nothing to entertain you with," Desmond answers, leafing idly through his Aviation Codex – the only thing he dares to work on and even that only where he knows no one can see through the windows.

It's kind of hard to remain excited about aviation, though, when Leonardo is all but chained to the ground like he is. It just drains the fun out of it.

"I'm sure you can think of something," Salaì bemoans and sidles to his side. "Tell me a story, Emilio, about Florence – I'm sure you know some great ones. Tell me something you've done."

Desmond casts him a glance and turns a page.

"Salaì, if you're so bored, you have sketch practice you could be doing," Leonardo says while carefully making measurements on the paper. "Your perspective still needs work. As does your anatomy."

Salaì sighs – and his head perks up as he gets an idea. Desmond leans back a little, wary, as the younger man turns to him. "Oh, _Emilio_ ," Salaì breathes. "I have a wonderful idea – tell me, have you ever modelled?"

"Er," Desmond answers and closes the book. "Depends on your definition of modelling," he says slowly.

"No, Salaì," Leonardo says.

"But I need something to practice on - I can't just draw correct anatomy from memory, Leonardo!" Salaì says, rising to his feet. "You said it yourself – imitation of life, not invention of it! Surely my practice will work better with a model to work with? And it is not as if Emilio has anything better to do."

Leonardo raises his head, looking tired and annoyed. He casts a look at Desmond, apologetic. "No, Salaì, stop bothering him," he says and lowers his eyes back to the designs. "We've put the man through enough."

"Oh, psh," Salaì says and turns to Desmond. "Surely you would like something better to do than sit on around getting fat. It is not hard at all, I promise – we will start simple, you sitting on a chair as I draw you."

Desmond hesitates, putting the Aviation Codex away. Modelling for drawing isn't something he's ever done, but… it sounds kind of interesting actually – and bit more like what one might expect from a Renaissance _bottega_. "Well," he says and glances at Leonardo. "I really don't have anything else to do –"

Leonardo sighs. "You really do not need –"

"Great!" Salaì cuts brightly in before Leonardo can finish. He claps his hands, completely ignoring Leonardo's irritable glare. "Now take off your clothes while I set up an easel!"

Desmond blinks at that and Leonardo sighs. "Salaì, _no_ ," he says. "This is not our workshop, nor is it an art workshop. Clothed practice only."

"But I cannot see his anatomy through his clothes!" Salaì says and then gives Desmond a thoughtful once-over. "I suppose I could use my imagination… Hmm…"

Desmond folds his arms, giving the younger man a flat look to which Salaì merely grins cheekily. Really, the guy has no shame.

Leonardo closes his eyes and mutters something that sounds a little like _lord give me strength_ , before straightening up and pushing away from the drawing table. "You are welcome to ignore him," he says to Desmond. "Though heaven knows I have been trying for years with little success."

"I am the soul and heart of every room I enter," Salaì agrees shamelessly and then comes closer to Desmond, grabbing him by the hand and pulling his arms from their position, spreading them out. "At least change into different shirt, please – I can't see _anything_ through that thing."

"I think that might be its purpose," Desmond says, wry, and shrugs. "I have nothing to change to."

"Oh, I have _just_ the thing!"

Before neither Desmond nor Leonardo can argue, Salaì spins around in glorious wave of carefully curled hair, and he's off, hurrying to the back to no doubt rummage through his clothing. Leonardo sighs. "Really, you needn't humour him," he says. "He will whine about boredom and then invent something else to entertain him."

"It's alright – I'm kind of bored too," Desmond admits embarrassedly. "And what's the harm in it?"

Leonardo lets out a little laugh. "You ask that now," he says and collapses to sit by the drawing table again. He fiddles with his quill for a moment. "Please, don't… don't take him terribly seriously for the jokes he makes and tricks he plays. He's a devil incarnate when he feels like it but Salaì is a good man. Only… mischievous."

"I know," Desmond agrees and after a moment of thought eases the cowl off. "It's fine."

Leonardo gives him a faint smile, still looking a little nervous – and then Salaì returns, holding in his hand a wide sleeved shirt worn so thin it's basically translucent. Leonardo gives it a look and then hangs his head in his palm, half groaning. " _Salaì_ –"

"It is a shirt," Salaì answers and all but throws the garment onto Desmond, spreading it over his front to measure it. "You say there won't be nude drawing, fine. Wear this, Emilio, and you shan't be nude."

"I'm not nude _now_ either," Desmond mutters, eying the garment. "It… looks a little small for me."

Salaì grins at that. "Oh, does it? I hadn't noticed. Alas it is the biggest shirt I have," he says and smiles wider. "Please put it on. I need to set up my drawing tools."

Desmond catches the shirt as Salaì lets go of it, letting the flimsy garment flop onto his arms. Leonardo gives him a look and shakes his head. "Honestly," he says and lets a faint, embarrassed laugh. "You really don't have to – please, feel free to ignore him. It will do him good and spare you the humiliation."

"I've done worse things," Desmond muses. And more humiliating things too, if wearing a thin, too small shirt even _counts_ as humiliating. Really, compared to some of the things he'd done for money after the Farm… this is nothing.

Leonardo opens his mouth – and then snaps it shut as Desmond sets the shirt down and starts taking his gambeson off. He stares for a moment, as Desmond undressed himself down to waist and then looks away sharply. "Well, if you're sure," he says, and coughs awkwardly.

Desmond hums, and undresses the thicker undershirt he wears under the gambeson, setting both of them – and Aviation Codex – down. Then he takes the flimsy shirt and sizes it up.

It fits… barely.

"Oh," Salaì says, stopping in middle of setting up his drawing paper on the stand, staring at him. Desmond looks down at the gaping collar and shrugs and Salaì licks his lips, nervous. "What – what is that on your arm?"

The tattoo, it turns out, shows through the shirt in a dark shadow.

"Art," Desmond says and then adjusts the hem of the shirt. At least it's long enough and doesn't leave his hips bare or anything like that. "So how do you want me?"

Salaì doesn't miss a beat. "On your back and with your legs –"

" _Salaì_!" Leonardo snaps and looks up in horror – and even Salaì seems to realise what he said. He stops, nervously fiddling with the paper's he's holding as both of them look at Desmond, waiting to see his reaction.

Desmond can't help but laugh a little at that – poor guys, they look so nervous. "You couldn't afford me, Salaì," he says and grabs a chair from the side, pulling it forward and sitting on it. "Seriously though, take it down a notch – the walls have ears."

Salaì opens his mouth, closes it, and then turns to Leonardo. "Is that a Florentian saying?" he asks.

Leonardo eyes Desmond for a moment and then clears his throat. "He means mind your tongue, Salaì," he says. "We're not in private here. And the Borgia are hardly sympathetic to us. Or our ways."

Desmond arches a brow at the look Leonardo is giving him – searching at first and then easing into something of a puzzled realisation. He shrugs a single shoulder at Leonardo – there's no way to really say _yeah I don't really mind you guys being gayer than Christmas,_ while they're being eavesdropped on. "So," he says and looks to Salaì. "What do you want me to do?"

"Ah," Salaì says and then clears his throat as well. He sets the papers down and then comes to pose Desmond how he wants him, crossing one of Desmond's legs over the other and then posing his hands so that one of them is in his lap and the other held up. "Hmm maybe like this…?"

"No, no, no," Leonardo says after a moment watching and then bounces to his feet. "Something new, please – you will learn nothing by doing the same pose again and again, Salaì. Let's try rather something like this…"

It's kind of funny, to be posed by the pair of them, but Desmond lets them do it, amused. It has eased some of the strain from Leonardo's face and really, the guy needs a break, even if it's just to wrangle Desmond's limbs into position. He ends up turned away from them, towards the window with his head tilted so that his profile is towards Salaì's easel – apparently Salaì needs to work on his profiles as well as unusual postures.

"And you really have a very distinctive profile," Leonardo says, his hand on the back of Desmond's bare neck, and Desmond shivers. With only the flimsy shirt on, Desmond is getting a little cold – and Leonardo's hand feels scorching hot on his skin. "There, that is perfect. Can you hold the position?"

"For a while," Desmond offers, trying not to squirm, and glances at the painter over his shoulder. "Are you going to draw me too?" he asks, amused.

"Oh, if only I could. Unfortunately, my models are only ones of my own making, right now," Leonardo laments and then looks up sharply as the front door is thrown open. His hand falls from Desmond's neck as the atmosphere in the room plummets. "Ser Montagna," he says.

"Maestro," the Borgia overseer says coolly. "Working hard I see. How comes the designs?"

Leonardo fiddles with his fingers and then turns to the drawing table. "I have had some progress – please, come have a look…"

The overseer peers over his work for a moment – but he's attention is on Desmond, posed as he is in the middle of the workshop. "Maestro," Montagna says. "You are here to work on engineering, not painting," he says. "Such distractions should not enter an _engineer's_ workshop."

"It is work for my student only," Leonardo says quickly, nervously. "Salaì is still learning, after all – I assure you, it is no distraction to me. Please, look at these gears – I believe I have their construction down now…"

Desmond says nothing, lowering his eyes and carefully keeping his tattooed arm in shadow where it might not show so much. The overseer is there on his usual bullying rounds, it seems, rushing Leonardo's work along – only this time he'd caught Leonardo in act of being _distracted_. Even Salaì seems afraid and nervous, fiddling with the drawing supplies uneasily.

It's _infuriating_ , watching Leonardo's head bend lower as he flounders to excuse and explain and please the overseer. It makes Desmond's bladed wrist _itch_.

If only they weren't surrounded by couple hundred soldiers on all sides…

"Concentrate onto your own work, Maestro," Montagna says, once he's sure he has them properly cowed. "You serve higher cause than mere art now. Keep your mind on what matters. I will see you tonight for dinner, Maestro – and I expect to hear the progress you have made since."

With another look around the workshop, the overseer turns and finally, leaves. The tension lingers after him, though, and it's a while before any one of them dares to breathe freely.

"I'm sorry," Salaì whispers, bowing his head.

Leonardo sighs and shakes his head. "I need to work," he says. "Go on, Salaì – draw. One of us should have the pleasure of doing what they want, at least…"

Salaì hangs his head for a moment and then turns to the easel. Desmond glances at him and then silently takes the position they'd chosen for him. In the posture he's been put into, he's staring right at Leonardo's back – watching it grow tense and strained as Leonardo reaches for the quill again.

It's a while before any of them feel at ease again.

* * *

 

Sketching Desmond keeps Salaì entertained a couple of days. It's a little odd to see himself rendered in charcoal sketch like that, and with such skill – Salaì might not be the most serious guy in the word, but he definitely knows how to draw. Whenever he has the time and dares to look away from his work, Leonardo dictates the practice Salaì does on him too – sometimes having Desmond switch postures fast, sometimes having him hold them for an hour or more, teaching his student speed as well as detail.

It's a bit tiring, Desmond's not really used to posing like that, but it's far from the worst thing he's ever endured. And it is a kind of awesome to see his features sketched out so beautifully. Not all of Salaì's sketches are successes, from what Desmond figure out from his occasional bouts of frustration and muttering anger – but to Desmond's untrained eye, they are all pretty amazing.

But eventually, Salaì grows bored of it too – and even the threat of the overseer doesn't keep him from complaining.

"Ugh, drawing, drawing, drawing, all I do is _draw_ ," Salaì grumbles. "And I can't draw anything _interesting_ either! What I wouldn't give for this miserable place to have a tavern in it. Who builds a fortress and doesn't include a tavern?"

"I don't see how a tavern would benefit a fortress," Leonardo muses, peering over a bit of wood consideringly – he's now upgraded from sketching to making models of the tank, and is methodically carving out little wooden gears.

"It would be great for troop morale if nothing else – the men here are all so serious and glum," Salaì grumbles. "And no one knows how to have fun. This place is hell on earth."

"Or heaven, depending on who you ask," Leonardo muses. "Little bit of abstinence from vices won't kill you, Salaì – it might even do you some good."

"I will wither and perish. Here lies Salaì in his forever sleep – he who perished at the hands of doldrums and tedium," Salaì groans and then pushes away from his easel. "I will fetch the water tonight," he decides. "I need to do something or I will lose my mind."

"Fine by me," Desmond agrees, stretching his neck a little after a day of posing again. He doesn't mind the errands; really, it gives him opportunity to stretch out his legs and a chance to look over the fortresses defences. He's been trying to count the soldiers there – and mark the times and places for watch changes. But so far his observations have only made their situation seem kind of depressing.

The Monte Circeo Fortress isn't very big – it's only one tenth the size of Monteriggioni, if even that – but it's well fortified and well guarded. Even at the lowest estimation Desmond can't see it having less than two hundred soldiers – and with it being a proper fortress as well as site for the _secret project_ … it probably has more that he hasn't been able to count. Alone he could probably slip away if he really had to, scale the walls and run away that way, but with Leonardo and Salaì… no.

Salaì heads out, taking the buckets with him as he goes, leaving Desmond and Leonardo alone in the darkening workshop. Outside, sun is setting. It's almost time for Leonardo to accept his daily _invitation_ to dine with the overseer, the captain in charge of the fortress and his highest lieutenants.

Leonardo looks at the window and sighs, turning to look at the carving again. The main shape of the tank is finished already – it's only the gears missing now. "What am I doing?" he murmurs and runs a hand over his face. Shaking his head he looks up to Desmond.

"You're doing what you can," Desmond says quietly. "And making best of what you got. All anyone can do, really."

Leonardo says nothing for a moment, turning his eyes to the tank model. "Is this my legacy to the world?" he wonders. "War machines? I wanted to work miracles – this is the opposite of it."

Desmond shakes his head, glancing to the window and then turning away to fetch the broom – there are wood flakes everywhere from Leonardo's carving, after all. "You will be remembered for your art," he says quietly, hopefully too quietly to be overheard by the soldiers forever hanging by the workshop. "For the beauty you brought into the word and the ideas you had. Not for this stuff."

He motions at the tank model and Leonardo looks up to him. He looks tired, his eyelids heavy and his face wan – he hasn't even bothered to brush his hair or beard that day, and looks a little ruffled. "Brought into the world," he repeats then. "Are my days of making art behind me, then?"

"No," Desmond says and crouches down to pick up the bits of wood from the floor. "Not by a long shot. You haven't even started your most famous piece yet."

"Ah," Leonardo says and then sighs. "That's… thank you," he says and bows his head for a moment. Then he shakes it. "I must be off – I wouldn't dare to miss the pleasure of Ser Montagna's company."

"We wouldn't want that, no," Desmond agrees with a grimace. "Do you want me to put your tools away?"

"No, I'm still not finished – leave them," Leonardo says and rests his hand on Desmond's shoulder for a moment. "Thank you," he says again, gripping Desmond's shoulder and then turning away, to freshen himself before his nightly inquisition.

Poor bastard, Desmond thinks and continues cleaning in silence. Maybe, if Leonardo felt up to it after the diner, he could tell the man something new about future, something to take his mind off things for a while. Something… light hearted.

Maybe he should tell Leonardo about the Da Vinci Code. Depending on the man's mood, he'd get a kick out of it.

Desmond sweeps the workshop and tidies the tools, the papers, going through everything just to pass the time. He considers trying to work on the Aviation Codex – but doing so would require either a candle or sitting by the fire... and wasting candles just for an assistant's work is a no-no in the overseer's agenda and working by the fire puts him in view of the window. Tomorrow, then, he decides, he'll start on challenges of aerodynamics, flow speed and compression and viscosity… writing about problems in problematic situation seems fitting anyway.

He doesn't start wondering about where Salaì is until good hour into his trip to the well – something which really shouldn't take longer than ten minutes normally. By that time the sky is almost pitch black and what little light there is in the fortress comes from torches and even those are lit sparingly.

Desmond waits a little while longer just in case before sighing and heading for the door – hoping to god he doesn't actually believe in that the guy hasn't gotten into trouble. Salaì is a bit of a nuisance but he's a likable nuisance – and if anything happened to him, it would break Leonardo's heart.

They have some freedom inside the fortress at least – with its gates shut and patrols frequent, it's not as if they can easily escape, after all. So as long as they don't make a nuisance of themselves, the assistants of Maestro da Vinci are given free reign of the ground level, so that they can perform their duties and make their errands.

Idly wondering about the tunnels leading into the mountain – and, ultimately, to where they are in secret going to build their machines – Desmond sets out searching for his fellow assistant. The passing guard's give him narrow looks but Desmond keeps his head down and eyes lowered and they let him pass without comment.

It's eerily quiet in the fortress, with only the arching steps and distant voices making any noise. In that silence the quiet rumble of many voices coming from the stables catches Desmond's attention – there's light of torches blazing inside, strangely enough. Curious – and suspicious – he sidles closer to see.

There's a crowd of soldiers inside, standing around in a ring and cheering and jeering at each other. In the middle of that ring is Salaì – gambling with a pair of dice.

For a moment Desmond just watches, wondering if he should just let it go and head back to the workshop. Then he runs a hand over his face and with muttered excuses steps forward and through the crowd of soldiers.

"Leonardo is going to _kill you_ ," he mutters directly to Salaì's ear. "What are you _thinking_?"

"I am thinking I'm going to win," Salaì answers and throws the dice. "There you go, see!" he says to the surrounding soldiers. "Lady Luck is fickle tonight. Care to raise your bet, sirs? The next throw might be yours."

"It might, it might," a soldier laughs, surprisingly good natured. "But my purse might not be, after. You have luck of the devil on your side, boy."

"Oh, hardly," Salaì says and throws few more coins onto the pot. "Come now, sir, what is it going to be?"

Desmond watched, half dismayed, how Salaì rouses the soldiers to the betting and the dice roll – in Salaì's favour. God, he hopes the man isn't using loaded dice – that would be the last thing they need, Salaì being accused of cheating at dice by crowd of heavily armed soldiers.

"Salaì," he says, a little plaintive. "Leonardo would not approve." And he's not sure he can protect the idiot if he manages to make all these people mad.

"Leonardo needs not know," Salaì says and grin. "You really need to relax a little, Emilio, and try life out. You might be surprised by the pleasures and thrills it offers."

"Strangely enough, I get enough of that outside gambling rings," Desmond shakes his head, considering grabbing Salaì by the neck and just hauling him off – when the dice roll again, and the crowd cheers. Salaì curses and Desmond sighs – not using loaded dice then, thank _fuck_.

"Come on, before you lose anything more," Desmond says while the winner does a cheerful victory round before gathering his winnings.

"No, no, I've just started – again, sir," Salaì says and throws out more coins. "You can go back to the workshop if it bothers you so, Emilio – no one likes a bore."

Desmond gives him an unimpressed look and folds his arms, looking the soldiers over. They seem to be having good natured fun, for now, but they are also drinking judging by the bottles being passed around not so surreptitiously. Alcohol and gambling is rarely a good combination.

"Half an hour, Salaì," Desmond says. "And then we'll leave."

Salaì looks up to him and then nods his hear. "Thank you, Emilio," he says with a wink and then turns to the dice. "Whose throw is it now?"

In the end, Salaì works the crowd well - though spirits run high and there is some elbowing and laughing and few not so kind jokes thrown around, there is no open ill will against Salaì. Probably because, by the end of his bout of gambling, he comes with a lighter purse than he entered – and the soldiers, richer for it, have no trouble feeling charitable.

He does win something, though. Just not money.

"Can you even play that?" Desmond wonders as they head back to the workshop, Salaì strumming lazily on a sort of weirdly shaped guitar he won one round. He doesn't even seem to mind the losses, having gotten the thing from it all.

"I can play a little," Salaì says, grinning, and sends a _twang_ of dissonant notes echoing in the fortress. "And Leonardo can play anything he can lay his hands on. It should make things bit nicer, don't you think – little bit of music?"

Desmond winces as a guard shouts, "What's that racket!" in the distance and reaches to take the guitar from Salaì before he can make more noise. It's not really a guitar – it has only four strings and it's shaped kind of wonky compared to the guitars Desmond had known in future. Probably out of tune too, judging by the noise.

"I don't think Leonardo has the time to play anything," Desmond says and holds the instrument away from Salaì's reaching hands. "And you need to tone it down. We're not exactly in a good place, here."

"We're in a _boring_ place," Salaì says with a pout. "What is so wrong with making some friends, anyway, and having some fun – even if Leonardo is an indentured servant here, we're not. We might as well have what entertainment we can, no?"

He says it with tone of obvious of suggestion and leans in a little, arching his brows.

"No," Desmond says firmly.

"Bore," Salaì sighs. "I'd even call you a prude but I know better… even if not from experience," he sighs and looks ahead, to the workshop. The usual soldiers hanging around it are gone now – their day's over the shop over now. There is light inside, though – Leonardo is back from his compulsory dinner. Salaì sighs again. "He's going to grow tired of you fast, you know."

"What?" Desmond asks, frowning.

Salaì shrugs. "Leonardo. He has his heart set on impossible goals, always had. He'll distract himself on you for a while, but eventually you won't be enough. None of us have ever compared to what he really wants, after all. I doubt looking like _him_ will be enough, either."

Desmond glances around quickly to make sure there's no one near to have over heard. Salaì shrugs at him fatalistically and then grabs the guitar from his hand and continues onto the workshop, leaving Desmond to follow at slower pace, his steps slowing down until he stops to stand in front of the workshop.

He'd figured that Leonardo and Salaì had been lovers, but… he'd never really thought what that might be like for Salaì – or for any lover of Leonardo's for that matter. To be with a man so set on someone else, someone as unobtainable as Ezio Auditore. What does that do to your ego?

Sighing, Desmond shakes his head and follows Salaì inside. Leonardo is sitting by the drawing table, his head in his hands.

"Leonardo?" Desmond asks, while Salaì approaches the artist nervously. "What's wrong?"

"Production will begin in a week," the painter says into his hands, not lifting his head – not even bothering to question where they'd been. "And if it will not work, one of you will be taken from me. I _can't_ sabotage it."

Shit, Desmond thinks and shares an anxious look with Salaì. Leonardo is silent for a moment, just breathing in and out raggedly.

"Then don't sabotage it," Desmond says finally. "We'll figure something out."

Leonardo lets out a weary sigh and lifts his head. "We can't get a word out and can't warn Ezio and I can't slow the production," he says. "Not any more. If the Ser Montagna's schedule will hold true, the first machines will be complete by the time of their planned assault on Sicily and with them they will win – and I don't know how to _stop this_."

Desmond says nothing for a moment, looking away. "How many men do you think there are here?" he asks quietly.

"Too many," Leonardo says wretchedly.

" _How many,_ Leonardo – do you know the precise numbers of the soldiers here?"

"It's too many! Even Ezio could not take this place alone," Leonardo says and stands up, throwing his hands up in frustration. "To try it would be suicide!"

Desmond turns to him seriously. "Once the production for the war machine starts, you will get access to a forge, tools, materials, right?" he says and watches Leonardo steadily. "You could in secret build me weapons."

"You'd need more than hidden blade and a musket!" Leonardo snaps.

Desmond arches his brows. "Yes," he agrees. "And if I give you rough designs, could you build them for me?"

Salaì stares between them, his eyes wide, while Leonardo's jaw works and his cheek flexes. "Maybe," he admits finally, looking worried and nervous. "I don't know – I might be able to sneak in extra material demands… What – what do you have in mind?"

Desmond presses is lips together. Fire, is what he has in his mind. He doesn't even have to think about it, the formulas for it are just there – formulas for jet fuel, for rocket fuel, all things that went into engines of 21st century flying machines. Things, which packed right and triggered _wrong_ … explode. Making them might be not be feasible now, but just something similar enough could do. There is also Ezio's later skills, learned in Constantinople under Yusuf's watchful, amused eye – the crafting of explosives.

Throw the two together…

"I'm going to need bombs," Desmond says out loud and Leonardo's eyes widen. "Lot and lot of bombs."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ey, double chapter day... night... well it's still the 4th for another ten minutes for me, so I say it counts.


	21. Chapter 21

It's one thing to sneak in a little extraneous crafting in his own workshop at Rome, where he can be certain of being at least relatively safe from prying eyes. It's something entirely different to craft something right under the watchful eyes of guards and the overzealous overseer, especially something like what Desmond wants.

The young man draws him designs in the shadows of their shared bedroom in the back of the workshop, sketching them out on stolen pages between his Aviation Codex, listing out ingredients for the fuels. "Gunpowder will do if you can't manage the distillation," he says while Leonardo tries to keep track of all the steps to make Desmond's explosives. "But this stuff is less explosive and more flammable – it will keep burning on for a while, which might be useful."

"I might manage some of it. It's not that different from the oils I used in the ammunition for the flying machine," Leonardo admits worriedly. "But this is… dangerous on it's own right. These designs, if the Borgia get their hands on them."

"Which is why I need you to memorise this so that I can burn the sheets," Desmond says. "Only record will be in your head. Now the shells, can you do the shells?"

They're not so different from the smoke bombs Ezio uses – only bigger, and with quite bit more gunpowder in them. And not only gunpowder – Desmond details him shells filled with shards of metal which Leonardo can imagine tearing through flesh and armour, another which will wash the surrounding area with fire, a third which, if Leonardo is right, will cause a terrible blinding flash of light…

"I think I should manage it, but it will take me time," Leonardo admits worriedly. "Perhaps if I can tempt Salaì into trying his hand at throwing clay, he could speed up the process…"

"I can try doing my part too, though I'm not that good at this stuff," Desmond admits and looks over the sketches. "I'm going to need a lot of these – dozen each, preferably twice as many. Another hidden blade could help too."

"And armour," Leonardo says firmly. A gambeson isn't enough to protect the man against bullets or spear thrusts – and all the guards here are armed with firearms. "I will make you armour also."

Desmond lifts his head and smiles a little. "I can steal armour from a guard," he says quietly. "It's alright."

"Tch – theirs is barely better than wearing none at all. I will _make_ you better one," Leonardo says firmly and leans back. "This will take days," he says then worriedly. "Week or two at least, possibly more." And doing it in secret will only make it slower and more dangerous. How on earth would they hide it all?

"But not as long as the war machine," Desmond says and looks at him. "I will need all of this and more to get you out of here safely – and I _will_ make sure you will get out of here safely."

Leonardo watches him for a moment, burst of fondness battling guilt in his heart before he nods and reaches to claps the younger man's hand. "Are you _sure_ you can do it?" he asks. "Even with all this weaponry… It is a large fortress, heavily guarded. And everyone here has a firearm, those are nothing to sneer at."

Desmond shakes his head and looks down at their hands. He turns his hand in Leonardo's and grips his fingers. "Where I come from, people have worse weapons than single shot muskets and rifles," he says wryly and squeezes his fingers firmly. "I promise you. _I can do this_."

Leonardo swallows and nods. "Then, tomorrow, I will begin." 

* * *

Salaì gives them some narrow looks the next day, when Leonardo details him what they must make in secret. He listens seriously and doesn't object – but there is a lively suspicion in his eyes and a knowingness that makes Leonardo a little nervous.

"So," he says finally, biting into his breakfast and humming. "A different kind of man for hire, then. Pity. Here I was amassing funds to buy you."

"Salaì," Leonardo snaps, grimacing and casting a look at Desmond – but he doesn't seem bothered in the least – if anything, he looks a little amused.

"Like I said, you wouldn't be able to afford me," Desmond says, before looking at Salaì seriously. "You need to keep this quiet, you know. If they find out, they will kill us all."

"I'm not stupid, only disappointed," Salaì says. "Well, bit of revolution sounds exciting at least – far better than sitting around doing nothing. When will we start? Because I am _dying_ to get out of here."

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Salaì. This will take time – producing what we need in secret will take days," Leonardo warns him. "We'll be trapped here for weeks yet, playing our parts."

"Yes, yes, but eventually," Salaì says, breaking off a piece of bread and looking at Desmond. "So – how many men have you killed, _Emilio_?" he asks curiously, almost challengingly.

Desmond looks back, flat. "I haven't really kept count," he says and arches his brows as Salaì leans back a little, looking slightly unnerved. Desmond eyes him for a moment and then shrugs and turns to his food, uncaring.

Leonardo coughs. "… In either case, I'm going to need your help, Salaì, I cannot do all of this on my own, not while I still must work on the war machine," he says, swallowing the unease. Desmond seems such an easy going man at most times – but underneath it all… he is still an Assassin. A Master Assassin, even, if Leonardo's suspicions are correct.

"Fine, fine, I will do my part," Salaì says, still watching Desmond thoughtfully. "Anything to get out of here."

Leonardo sighs and nods. "Good," he murmurs. "That's good."

It eases something in his heart, to have a plan. It's a terrible plan that makes his lungs feel tight and constricted and makes him twice as nervous as every time the Overseer comes to his workshop – but it's still a plan and a even slightly better one than sitting around doing nothing. Executing it, though, is a different thing.

Desmond's bombs require impact shells – which rather implies he doesn't expect to have the time to mess about with a lighting stick once action would start. For that, ceramics would be the safest bet – something Leonardo _can do_ but which is rather hard to justify when he's supposed to be making the war machine. Especially since he has no proper kiln and can't quite justify one either – they can bake the clay in a forge or in a fireplace, it's only matter of building the fire hot enough… but it's tricky.

The rest of the materials for the bombs are both easier and harder to get. Gunpowder he can get with only a request – all he needs to do is to claim that he is testing out the charge and firing rates for the new gun barrels, how much lighter – and thus weaker – can he make them before sacrificing structural security.

"The lighter I make the canons within, the better for the function of the platform," he later assures the overseer. "The lighter the overall machine, the easier it will move."

Thankfully at this point Ser Montagna is satisfied that he has browbeaten Leonardo into submission, and though the suspicion is there, it is more habitual now than watchful – more a intimidation tactic than anything.

"I am glad you have decided to finally take your work seriously, Maestro," the overseer sneers and so, Leonardo gets his gunpowder – and his sulphur and black oil and Ser Montagna even produces him a extremely valuable cask of yellow tar from the Ottoman Empire, what Desmond called _petroleum_. Other things are harder to justify, but bit by bit… Leonardo has all he needs.

It's a lot of flammable things in one workshop and the smell is unspeakable once Leonardo finally starts mixing the things under Desmond's sideways glance, gauging his success by the man's silent nods and shakes of his head. It makes his heart pound a little faster, when ever he gets right – Desmond's eyes go dark and dangerous and Leonardo knows without needing to be told that the bottle of liquid he managed to distil is enough to destroy his workshop with a one single spark.

Needless to say, he keeps them well away from fires. They're kept in their bedrooms where candles are no longer being lit for safety reason – same as the flash powder Desmond shows him one night and the gunpowder mixtures, until they are sleeping on bed of nearly assured destruction, should the ground shake even a little.

If Leonardo didn't know what an uneasy sleeper Desmond was from the first, he'd think the potential of fire was what keeps the man awake at night. But he knows better.

Desmond wakes, time and time again, shouting " _No!"_ through clenched teeth and then he crumbles over his right arm, clutching at it like it's hurting him, fingers convulsed in a terrible cramping motion – and when ever Leonardo asks him if he's alright, he grinds out, "Just fine," as if the opposite wasn't so terribly obvious.

"That is not fine," Leonardo murmurs.

"It'll go away on its own," Desmond mutters in the darkness, bending over the arm and breathing harshly. When Leonardo says nothing, he adds, "I've had worse, really."

"That's not really a very good thing to take comfort in," Leonardo murmurs and rises from his bed – Salaì having taken the master bedroom as his own long time ago, which is just as well. "Show me, please?"

"It's not actually physical pain – there's nothing you can do about it," Desmond grinds out, but relents a little as Leonardo sits beside him. Every muscle on his right arm is clenched tightly, painfully – it makes the whole limb feel like warm stone in darkness. "It's just… memory."

"The memory might not be physical, but the reaction to it is," Leonardo says and then gently digs his thumbs in to the right flesh of Desmond's arm. "Let me try something."

He can feel the younger man's convulsing fingers twitch against his arm as he tries soothing out the cramped muscles, digging the tips of his thumbs where the tightness begins. From his anatomical studies he knows where the muscles give into sinews – where the muscles tense as they work – and if he's right that is where they should also release.

Desmond breathes in and out and then let's out a hiss as under Leonardo's fingers, his muscles ease and the shaking stops. "That's – incredible. How did you do that?"

"Being an artist, the function of one's hands was of especial interest to me when I had time to do my dissection studies," Leonardo admits. "It has helped me against cramps when spending prolonged periods of time painting. Can you stretch out your fingers?"

Desmond does so, and Leonardo soothingly rubs along the long muscles of his arm, feeling them in the darkness more than seeing them, and bit by bit the tension eases. "Now relax," he whispers and Desmond lets his fingers curl inward.

"Thank you," the younger man murmurs. "I'm sorry about waking you up, again."

"I was hardly sleeping anyway," Leonardo admits, rubbing at the tendons of Desmond's wrist, where some tension still lingers. "You have nightmares every night."

"Pretty much," Desmond says and bows his head over the arm. "Sorry. I'll try to be quiet next time."

He tries to be quiet every time – and every time he fails. "Its fine," Leonardo says and then hesitates, his fingers curling around the younger man's wrist. "What is it that you see in your nightmares? It's always the same one, isn't it."

Desmond says nothing for a while, and Leonardo starts wondering if he had crossed a terrible line, when he finally sighs. "How I died," Desmond murmurs. "I touched a device the First Civilisation built – and it burned me to death. My hand was scorched black. I can still _feel_ it, burning through me, that power," he whispers and his fingers clench again. "I can usually ignore it but…"

Leonardo swallows. Desmond had said he died, but… Leonardo hadn't really thought of what that meant. He'd _died_. He remembered _death_. And as horrible as it is, as pained as Desmond sounds, Leonardo almost wants to ask if he remembers anything from after – did he _see_ anything.

"I'm sorry," Desmond says again, gritting his teeth on his obvious embarrassment. "I'll try to hold it in."

"It's alright," Leonardo sighs and manages to not to ask. "It's hardly your fault and who could blame you? Anyone would have nightmares, surely."

"Hm," Desmond answers, dubious. "We should try going back to sleep," he then says and slowly extradites his arm from Leonardo's hold. "You have work to do tomorrow."

"Quite," Leonardo agrees and after moment of hesitation rises from Desmond's bed and goes to his own, leaving the younger man bowing over his arm for a moment longer. "Good night, Desmond."

"Good night, Leonardo," Desmond answers, but it's a while longer before he lies down to sleep. Leonardo watches him from the shadows and wonders, not for the first time, what Desmond had gone through to get here, to this time – and what else lies in wait for the woefully unprepared Chosen One.

Eventually, he sleeps.

* * *

There isn't always time to work at Desmond's bombs. Sometimes the guards hover around the windows so openly that Leonardo and his two assistants barely dare to speak and sometimes the overseer comes at odd times, leaving them winded and disturbed. Days can go by, without them daring to try and make anything for their eventual escape plan.

On those days, Leonardo works at his machine and Salaì and Desmond sit around at loose ends more than anything, Salaì growing bored and Desmond growing quiet. It usually inevitably leads into Salaì toying with his _vihuela_ , playing it… very badly.

"I won it from a guard who apparently _confiscated_ it from a drunken bard," Salaì explains when Leonardo asks about it, half way hoping it was a loan from someone and Salaì would have to return the thing eventually. "I won it fairly so now it is mine. Isn't it nice?"

He strums his finger nails across the strings and Leonardo winces – and he's not the only one. "It's out of tune," Desmond says. "And missing a string, I think. Hand it over."

"No, it's _mine_ ," Salaì says and clutches the thing close to his chest. "And I will play with it if I like – it's not as if there is much else to play with around here –"

"Give it here so I can try and tune the damn thing properly," Desmond sighs, holding out his hand. "It's doing my head in, that loose string. Come on."

Leonardo looks up from his work to see Salaì very suspiciously handing the instrument over. Desmond sets it on his lap, propping one leg up to support it, and then he tests the strings while loosening the tuning pegs.

It makes him terribly nostalgic for his poor old lyre. He hasn't had one in a long while – he thought to get a new one in Rome, but he'd never had the money, the Borgia barely paid him enough to keep himself and Salaì fed and clothed.

Desmond tunes the vihuela carefully, testing the strings until their tune sings out properly, reverberating deep in the chambers of the instrument.

"You can play it?" Salaì demands, as Desmond plucks each string in turn, and they all sound properly – sans the missing fifth string, which had been broken off at some point.

"Something like it," Desmond admits, and props the vihuela in his lap, the neck of the instrument resting in his left hand while he plucks at the strings with the right. "I play a guitar, it has six strings and sounds a bit different. I can't read sheet music though – I learned by ear, really."

"Well, come on then, play us something," Salaì says and Leonardo leans his elbows onto the drawing table, watching as Desmond tests the strings and then, tentatively, tries a set of pentatonic scales to familiarise himself with the vihuela, playing them in fits and starts until he grows a little more fluid, getting used to the sound.

Desmond takes a moment to think of what to play – and Leonardo wonders, suddenly and startlingly, what kind of music might be played in his time, five hundred years from now, when technology had advanced to such incredible heights as to allow a man to divine the past of his own blood, what kind of instruments they might play there? What did Desmond's future sound like?

Eventually, Desmond tries out a melody. It's obviously missing notes, coming out a little jagged as Desmond tries to make up for the missing strings, but he makes up for it after a while, playing the little melody and plucking at the strings until he has it down – easing into it.

It doesn't sound much like any music Leonardo has ever played, the way Desmond plucks at the strings. It has none of the gaiety of a bard's playing, little of the elation of a piece one might hear played in a high society dinner hall. It's _melancholy_.

It also sounds like it's missing an accompaniment. "That is a song," Leonardo says slowly. "Isn't it?"

"Hm," Desmond agrees over the delicate pattern of notes he's weaving. "It's in another language, though."

"Sing it anyway," Salaì says, leaning in eagerly and almost pushing his face into Desmond's. "Come now – we're _dying_ to hear you noises you can make."

"I'm sure you are," Desmond answers amusedly and then he settles into the pattern of playing. And then he sings.

Leonardo frowns, trying to make out the language. It… sounds like English maybe, but he has never had the cause to learn the language. Desmond sings in it with the ease of a native speaker too, the sounds slipping from his lips smoothly and confidently – not like foreigner trying to mimic a language he doesn't really know. Odd – Leonardo had thought Desmond was from Florence, his accent was such pure Florentian and as Ezio's descendant it makes sense, but now…

Though he can't understand the words, the sound of it's enough to identify the subject. A love song, has to be – and a quiet, wistful one at that. It's over all too fast for Leonardo to do more than wonder at it – too fast to appreciate sound Desmond's quiet voice in a song.

"How's that?" the young Assassin asks, a little embarrassed.

" _Lovely_ ," Salaì pronounces. "What is about?"

Desmond smiles wryly. "Saving time," he says and thrums his fingers over the strings. "I can't play all the songs I know with this thing – it doesn't have the strings I need for the deeper notes. Let's see… something with lighter notes maybe…"

He starts another piece – one slightly less melancholy, but not by much. It's a slower, quieter piece – and this time Desmond sings to it without prompting, his voice slightly lighter in tone but still quiet, and far from the joyful signing of most bards.

Future, Leonardo decides with a swallow, sounds rather sad.

* * *

They make the first bombs the same time as the construction of the prototype tank begins. While Leonardo guides number of workmen in the construction of the frame work and all the gears that go into it, Desmond and Salaì use the time to make the shells for Desmond's bombs in secret, firing them up in the heavily banked fire in the fireplace. Most of them crack, Leonardo finds later on, the heat too uneven in the fireplace – but enough of them come out solid to make them all feel bit more confident about the project.

The first bomb is made a week after they started – with Leonardo and Desmond carefully measuring the powder into what would be a _flash bang_ while Salaì holds a candle carefully at safe distance way. Bedroom is a strange place to be making tools of war, midnight strange time to be making them, but it's not like they have much choice.

Desmond puts in a seal on the ceramic shell and weights the bomb in his hand. "I think it came out alright," he says and looks up. "I think we can really do this."

"You didn't before?" Salaì whispers, his voice a little high. "For God's sake man!"

"Well you never know you can make something until you finally actually make it," Desmond says with a grin thrown at his way and weighs the bomb again. "I'd feel better if I could test it out, but… I think we got it."

Leonardo lets out a little laugh, nervous and relieved and shares a smile with Desmond. "One down – dozens more to go."


	22. Chapter 22

There was a weird thing Rebecca's Animus had done which Desmond hadn't realised he'd missed until he got his hands onto the proto-guitar – the vihuela. Rebecca's Animus had had background music.

" _I just thought it would make things bit more interesting_ ," Rebecca said. " _And it's a good way to remind you that what you're seeing isn't actually, you know… really happening. Reality doesn't have background music_."

Desmond had been a bit weirded out by it at first but eventually he'd got used to it. Lot of the pieces that played in the Animus were pretty good too – not like actual songs you might hear on the radio, he didn't play at being Assassin while listening to modern pop songs, thank god. They'd been actual orchestral pieces, nothing like he'd ever heard played in the Bad Weather or anywhere else for that matter, and they'd always, somehow fit. While Shaun had directed the database, Rebecca had directed the atmosphere.

And the piece she'd found to play at the background of every damn tragedy in Ezio's life always broke Desmond's heart a little. It's probably a little messed up that Desmond is now trying to figure out how to play it on the vihuela.

"That's beautiful," Leonardo comments while punching holes into a strap of leather with a needle like tool and a hammer. He peers at the result and then looks up. "If very sad sounding."

"I can't get the notes right on the latter part," Desmond murmurs, plucking out the theme slowly and making a face, pressing the flat of his palm against the strings. "Is there anything I can do to help?" he asks, feeling a bit useless. Playing music helps a little – it eases the nervous atmosphere at the workshop if nothing else – but he's not actually _contributing_ to anything.

"I'm almost done," Leonardo says and then takes out the thick thread and begins to sew the strap he'd made. Desmond watches him for a moment before glancing away. Salaì was in the back, probably fast asleep – or doing something Desmond didn't really want to details on, though Salaì would share if he felt like it, he always did.

"I'm almost… done," Leonardo repeats quietly after a while and Desmond looks back to him. Leonardo fits a buckle into the strap and considers it. Then he looks up to Desmond. "Come here."

"Shouldn't we…?" Desmond trails off and looks away, narrowing his eyes at the window. No red. Quiet, Desmond sets the vihuela down to the floor by the bench where he usually plays, by the fire. He goes to Leonardo and then stands with his back to the window, just in case there is someone out of Eagle Vision's view, and holds out his arm.

Leonardo measures his arm over the cloth of his gambeson against the strap, hums, makes a mark on the leather and nods. Without hesitation he moves to cut the strap there, shortening it, and then sitting back down by the worktable, reaching for the chest hidden under it – where the parts of Desmond's new armour sit, the hidden blade on top.

The strap is added in quickly, last of the three, and for a moment they just stare at the completed armour. Somehow, Leonardo has managed to sneak in a whole set in between making the dozens of gears and cogs that went into the war machine – machine which, now, has a functional framework and is only missing its guns and its shell.

Leonardo looks up to him, his expression torn.

"It's late," Desmond says quietly. "You should go to bed."

Leonardo opens his mouth, closes it, and then lowers his eyes. His fingers squeeze in, curling into fists in his lap and he breathes. "What are you going to do?" he asks, not looking up.

"I'm going to run some errands," Desmond says, thinking, calculating. He might not have Animus hud and handy map of the grounds in the corner of his vision here, but he has the fortress' layout pretty well in mind now. He's spent enough time trying to memorise anyway. "I didn't empty the chamber pots and should probably do that."

Leonardo swallows. "What if –" he starts and then stops and looks up, his expression torn. "M-maybe you should wait for a better time."

Chances are there wouldn't be a better time. Waiting for a better opportunity, Desmond knows from experience, usually means you will only be left with a worse one. Tonight is a quiet one, with Salaì indoors and probably asleep there hopefully aren't any gambling rings going on either. "Go to bed Leonardo," Desmond says quietly and pushes away from the worktable. "It's late."

They've been here for well over a month now. It's _very_ late.

As he goes to get the chamber pots from the back, Leonardo nervously tidies up his work table and the, after moment of hesitation, he passes Desmond by on his way to the back. He probably wouldn't sleep, but that's fine – so as long as he stayed indoors, and out of harms way.

His heart set, Desmond steps out into the streets of the fortress, breathing in the cool night air. Glancing around he counts the nearby watches – there will be five patrols of five guards on the ground, and riflemen on every rooftops. Seven guards on the northward wall, eight on westward, five on southward one. Two riflemen on every tower roof – and more besides inside the towers, the walls, the buildings. Good forty men on watch, and two, three hundred more indoors.

The rifleman on the rooftop across the workshop looks his way and Desmond bows his head, hurrying off to _empty_ the chamber pots. Only there is nothing in it to empty.

Except a handful of bombs.

In the past few days, Desmond has planted catches of them around the fortress, plotting out the route he would take through the watches and guards, taking them out. Riflemen on rooftops first, then take out two of the patrols on ground, then up to the walls….

Careful, Desmond hides the bombs in the chamber pots into bushes by the route he is going to take and then continues on, as if really to empty the pot into the ditch that leads into the cesspools outside the fortress. After miming the motions of emptying something that isn't actually full, Desmond heads back, mentally preparing for himself.

Then he goes back to the workshop, to have a closer look at the armour.

It's one hell of an armour too. Somehow Leonardo hadn't only managed to make the whole thing perfect, but he'd of course made it beautiful too. It's not quite on the level of the artistry Leonardo had put into Ezio's hidden blades and his musket, he hadn't had the time for such details, but it's beautiful regardless, the metal is smooth and even, the edges perfectly rounded and perfectly fitting – already Desmond can tell the whole thing will fit him like a glove.

Desmond takes a deep breath and then stands up to douse the lights, pinching last candle still lit on the workshop, and then pouring pre-prepared bucket of sand onto the fire. In an instant, the workshop plunges into darkness, the only light visible what little screens through the open windows.

Then Desmond reaches for the armour.

"Wait wait wait – !"

"Damn it, _Salaì_ –"

Desmond looks up in the middle of taking out the chest plate, when Salaì rushes into the workshop, carrying with him something – Leonardo fast at his heel, trying to draw him back. Salaì shrugs his teacher off and turns to Desmond. "I have something for you – here," he says and throws something made of cloth almost right at Desmond's face. "Here," he says again.

"Um," Desmond answers and catches the cloth before it can fall. It's hard to see in the darkness, but… it's a robe. An Assassin's white robe – made of very fine and smooth feeling silver and red silk. "Salaì –"

Salaì folds his arms, looking annoyed and afraid while Leonardo looks at the robe in astonishment. "I might not be able to make armour but I can at least make sure you look the part," Salaì says and then adds. "And your gambeson is _ugly_."

"Salaì… I bought that silk for _you_ ," Leonardo says faintly, turning to Salaì. "It was supposed to make you a new cloak. And it was supposed to be a surprise!"

"Yes, and it would've been one a _year_ ago when you bought it. But then you did nothing with it," Salaì shrugs. "And since it's mine I thought a better use for it. Put it on, Emilio. I want to see how well I made it – I only saw Ezio's robes the one time, didn't get a terribly good look at them then, but…"

Desmond coughs, looking between the pair of them, battling guilt and overwhelming fondness. "You know how to sew?" he asks and Salaì gives him a flat look. "Aww, Salaì, I'm touched."

"Not yet, but if you keep this up you will be," Salaì threatens and waves a hand. "Put it on already."

"You know I'm probably going to get this all bloody," Desmond says, a little torn. It is really nice looking piece of cloth.

"You damn well better _not_ ," Salaì says dangerously.

Leonardo looks between them helplessly and Salaì folds his arms, lifting his chin imperiously. Taking a breath, Desmond tugs the novice's cowl off and then pulls the robe on over the gambeson.

It's not exactly like Ezio's robes – though the design is very close to it. The same sort of angled hem with tails, and flared collar, red and silver-white silk contrasting each other. There's even a cape, artfully slanted over one of Desmond's left arm – red on the inside, silver white on the out. The hood of the robe falls to Desmond's eyes, low enough to hide his eyes but not so much that it obscures his vision, flaring at the bottom. With a curious finger Desmond traces the designs on its beak.

Salaì got it _perfectly_.

"Oh," Leonardo murmurs, soft.

"Let's put the armour on," Salaì says, just as soft.

Even with the lights out and the workshop dark it's still a bit dangerous to be doing it right there, in the workshop, where anyone could enter any moment with a torch and see everything. Salaì and Leonardo do it anyway, while Desmond stands there, swaying into their hands, into each piece of armour they put on him.

First the chest guard which really fits like a glove, the front and back pieces snapping in place like puzzle pieces as Leonardo straps them in place with efficient, sharp tugs. Spaulders next, one on each shoulder, one half hidden under the cape. While Salaì puts the greaves him, one after the other, Leonardo straps in Desmond's new hidden blade over his left arm. On his right goes a bare bracer, onto which Leonardo fits Desmond's own hidden blade, it's more futuristic shape slotting into the bracer perfectly.

"I wasn't sure which one you wanted your pistol on," Leonardo says quietly, turning Desmond's arms in his hands. "So there's one on both, here, see? I thought it suitable since you seem to be ambidextrous and do not have a crossbow…"

Desmond doesn't look, staring at Leonardo's face instead, wordless in his amazement. Leonardo had noticed? And had the time to make him pistols?

"If you're going to kiss, let me finish this first so that I can step back and enjoy the visual properly," Salaì says and nearly knocks Desmond off balance by tightening the greave strap. Then, as Desmond straightens himself and Leonardo quickly pulls his hands away, Salaì stands smoothly. "There, I'm ready," he says. "You may now kiss."

" _Salaì_ ," Leonardo groans, half hearted at best, his eyes on Desmond. He shakes his head and coughs. "Well, now you… certainly look the part."

Desmond looks down, over the white silver and red silk and smooth metal. He really does, doesn't he? Robes and armour and weaponry and all. He opens his mouth but… he doesn't really know what to say.

"I – also made you a belt," Leonardo admits. "With pouches and such for knives and bombs and poisons as well, and of course your short weapon sheath – here –"

"When did you have the _time_ for this?" Desmond murmurs, wondering, as Leonardo straps the belt on him. It has a large buckle, shaped like the symbol Assassins Brotherhood on it, Desmond realises, his gut clenching. It's a familiar looking buckle too.

"Some of it I already had made," Leonardo admits and tightens the belt around Desmond's waist. "I made these from my own satchels, actually. The knives I made at the forge – they are not pretty, but they should be well balanced. The belt buckle… that I already had."

As Leonardo steps back to look at him, Desmond sways a little in place for a moment before straightening up. It's enough like Ezio's usual gear and weaponry to make him a little confused – but at the same time it's _different_ too. The weight and shape of it is subtly different – the tails are shorter, the cape slanted at slightly off angle. But the belt…

Desmond traces the belt buckle. It really is Ezio's, he realises. His first one – the one he found in the hidden space in his father's study back in Florence, over twenty years ago… the one he'd left behind at Monteriggioni. "Why do you have this?" Desmond asks quietly.

"Cesare gave it to me," Leonardo admits, his voice low. "A reminder of what I'd done." Of how the weapons he'd built had been used on the Auditore.

Salaì looks between them as the silence stretches. "Are you going to kiss or are you going to _cry_?" he asks dubiously, looking between them.

"No," Desmond snaps, casting him a look. "I'm going to _kill people_ now."

"… ah," Salaì says, blinking at that. He fiddles with the edge of his shirt for a moment and clears his throat. "In that case… I'll be in my bunk. Happy hunting."

Desmond looks after him as he hurries off, looking both red and pale at the same time. "Desmond," Leonardo murmurs – and that's when Desmond kisses him.

It's like in all the clichés – everything seems to just stop there, Desmond's thoughts and breath and time itself seems to just _cease_ for a moment. Leonardo is perfectly still against him, his cheek under Desmond's fingers, his beard soft, bristling slightly at the heel of his hand, his nose pressed against Desmond's cheek. He's not breathing either. If it wasn't for his lips, warm and soft and yielding under Desmond's, he would think the man had turned to stone.

Then Leonardo makes a wounded sound against him and turns his head away. Desmond's nose drags against his cheek, his lips against Leonardo's beard, against the side of his face – his hand is still on Leonardo's other cheek, holding him close.

Shit, Desmond thinks, the first thought he manages to have. Yeah, he just did that.

Leonardo's breath comes out in a stuttering little huff against Desmond's wrist, and his hand is on Desmond's chest, putting in just barely enough pressure against the armour to be felt – but not enough to push him back. For a moment they just stand there, on the edge.

Then Desmond turns his face, almost nuzzling into Leonardo's hair – it's softer and warmer than he'd thought. "I'm sorry," he says and moves to pull away. Shit, shit, _shit_. This is really, _really_ not the time for this. "I need to…"

Leonardo breathes in and out, once, twice, and then turns to look at him. In the shadows of the lightless workshop, his eyes are dark and troubled. "We'll wait for you here," he says quietly.

Desmond hesitates and then nods. "Bar the doors," he says. "Don't come out unless the building catches on fire."

Leonardo nods – watching him seriously. Then, before Desmond can take more than one step away, Leonardo grabs Desmond by the wrist and pulls him back in, throwing his arms around him. "Stay safe," the painter says tightly as his arms wind around Desmond's back and squeeze. "We have _much_ to discuss after this is over – so much more than I thought."

Desmond lets out an awkward, choked laugh, nodding his head against the other man's – then Leonardo's hand trails up the hood, to his cheek, guiding him in for another kiss. It's firm and desperate and over all too quickly – far too quickly to let Desmond even register it's really happening, never mind appreciate it. He sighs, half frustrated, and Leonardo pulls back, hand on Desmond's chin to stop him from following.

"Come back to me in one piece," the artist says, his expression grim and anxious. "Now go."

Desmond bows his head and turns – grabbing a satchel of bombs as he goes.

* * *

 

Altaïr is running ahead of him, rushing over the street and running up a wall, grabbing the edge of the rooftop  – then there is Ezio, reaching forward with a hidden blade, stabbing it into the unknowing guard and dragging him down. The man's weight is on Desmond's hand as the catches the guard before he can fall, and Connor pushes the guard up as Desmond rises to the roof. Ezio, Altaïr, Connor – they all throw the knife to the opposing rooftop and the red shaded figure there slumps into the knife that hits his chest perfectly, falling to the roof tiles.

Desmond blinks, and the people in his head settle into reality, the past and skills of his ancestors collapsing into the present. He's in Monte Circeo, and he's going to take the whole fortress down, now. Right.

Desmond breathes in and out, and then he rises. Pushing Leonardo and the bleeding effect from his head, Desmond lets his mind fall empty – and then he activates the Eagle Vision.

Speed is key now – speed and silence. The more soldiers he can take before the alarm is raised, the better.

No longer thinking, Desmond takes few running steps and jumps from one rooftop to another. There – another guard on another roof, also taken down by a throwing knife. Quickly, Desmond gets the first knife he threw back from the dead man on the roof and then peers over the edge of the rooftop. There should be a patrol – there.

Five soldiers, all of whom he needs to take down before a single one of them raises alarm.

Desmond sneaks up to the corner of the rooftop, taking out two throwing knives. He breathes, waits, and once the time is right, he throws them both – and then he jumps down, feet first, arms spread – hidden blades snapping out from both wrists.

One soldier crashes down under literally under his heel, his neck giving away with barely a fight under the weight. Two more follow immediately after, Desmond's hands on both their necks, hidden blades sunken into their backs. Ahead of them, the two he hit with the throwing blades stumble and fall.

The couple second of action are followed by silence before Desmond takes the first guard and hurriedly drags him out of sight – doing the same to the others as quick as he can.

Still undetected, Desmond moves on.

He's falling into it now, the _feeling_ of it. Maybe it really is being Zen, maybe it's just some sort of battle instinct thing. Might be a side effect of their _gift_. All his ancestors had it – that moment when, in midst of action, everything went very quiet and clear. Altaïr had been master of it since the first, Ezio learned it over many years… Desmond had felt it personally only once – when he'd taken the Abstergo Tower and saved his father.

Silent, Desmond rushes over the rooftops, taking out the riflemen when he can get a clear shot at them, retrieving his knives quickly and moving on. He rushes up a higher building and then launches backwards from it, catching a hold of the fortress wall and peering over its edge. The first guard there he takes out with a hidden blade, dragging the collapsing body over the edge of the wall and dropping him into the shadows before climbing up. Then, hidden in the shadows of the wall, Desmond takes out throwing knives. One goes to the guard on the left – the other to the guard on the right.

He makes it half way around the wall – and through more guards than he cares to stop and count – before the alarm is finally raised. Whether it's because of the bodies he'd left behind or because someone had spotted him, doesn't really matter. He got pretty far without being spotted, but it was only matter of time before it would happen.

Desmond stops to breathe in the shadow of a tower, exhaling slowly.

Then he brings out the bombs.

He's on the other side of the fortress now – Leonardo's workshop is far enough away to be safe. There are men rushing on the streets below, a patrol – now, a squadron of soldiers, twelve, fifteen – twenty. Desmond peers down on them, watching where they're heading – and then, not letting himself feel remorse, he throws a bomb in front of them, putting as much power into the throw as he can manage.

It goes off with a resounding _crack_ that echoes in the fortress like a thunder clap. The flash of light is brief, as fast as the noise, but the impact lingers. The bomb wasn't enough to take out all of the soldiers – only the ones at the front are instantly taken out, the ones in the back were shielded by the frontward guards – but that wasn't the point. The bomb, packed full of shrapnel, had sent a wave of destruction into the surrounding area, tearing into people and buildings. But not where he wanted it.

Not quite close enough, Desmond guesses – and throws another. This time it works.

The shrapnel bomb goes with a crack and is followed by another explosion, as the bombs Desmond had hidden on the ground are triggered by the shrapnel. First one, then another in quick succession of thunderous noise as the bombs go off, one after another. An enormous tide of hot air rises from below as fire blooms out in the street below, flooding the whole area in sheer, hot destruction.

Desmond doesn't stick around to see the aftermath – he has more bombs to trigger, and more people to kill. Barracks next, he decides – he hadn't gotten bombs close to it, but he can damn well set the place on fire.

The guards up ahead, roused by the alarm and the fire, don't see him coming until its too late

"You, stop – _Assas_ –" one of them tries to shout over the cacophony of fire as Desmond rushes into him, and leaves him with a deep wound in his gut. Grabbing the guy's spear as it falls; Desmond launches it into the guard ahead of him and then aims with one of his bracer pistols, taking out the third before rushing at the fourth one. The guy is fumbling with his rifle, almost manages to bring it to bear before Desmond kicks the barrel aside and slices the guy's neck with his right hidden blade. More soldiers up ahead, coming out of the guard tower.

Desmond takes another bomb – a smoke bomb this time – and steamrolls right into them. A knife to the back of one, hidden blade into neck of another, the third he kicks off the wall and the fourth he trips into the ground and stabs with another hidden blade. The fifth hesitates for a second too long – he gets a friend's spear into his gut before Desmond pushes him off the wall, spear and all.

"There, on the wall –" someone shouts below and Desmond throws a fire bomb at him. Then there are only screams.

Grim and well into the rhythm of death now, Desmond moves on – only to pause when he glimpses something golden in the corner of his eyes.

 _Ser Montagna_ , surrounded by contingent of soldiers– rushing towards the gates with papers in hands. The papers glow silver. Leonardo's plans then.

Target identified, Desmond looks down, searching – there, a rooftop right below, fire roaring on the street below. Without second thought, he launches down from the wall, throwing another smoke bomb ahead, kicking a guard out of his way before launching, blades first, into the throng of soldiers.

It doesn't even for a moment dawn on him that this might be a bad idea – it's just what he does, careless of the risk or threat of pain.

You can't die in the Animus, after all.

"Assassin!" Ser Montagna snarls as Desmond crashes onto two soldiers, sending them to the ground with blades on their backs. "Kill him, kill him, _kill him_!"

Desmond ducks from under a sword blade coming at him and parries another coming from the other side, deflecting it with one hidden blade and sinking the other into a guard's side before kicking the feet from under a third. That man too falls to a hidden blade and when a fourth comes at Desmond and meets a similar fate, the fifth hesitates long enough to make everyone else hesitate as well, their swords wavering as they nervously shift their footing. They have him surrounded but they're too afraid to attack – and Desmond doesn't care. They all glow red, which means he can kill them all without fear of desynchronisation.

So, Desmond slams down a smoke bomb, and does just that.

Ser Montagna watches, wide eyed and horrified and then he turns to flee. Desmond glances up – he is _not_ starting this memory again, he decides, and then rushes past the other guards, crashing through them and stumbling for a moment but breaking through. Awkward, but faster than fighting them all and he's on a time limit now.

There is his target, glowing golden – his _Assassination target_.

Desmond – Altaïr, Ezio, Connor – launches forward, and as the overseer cries out he sinks both blades into the man's back. Ser Montagna stumbles and falls forward with Desmond's weight on his back – dead before he even meets the ground.

"Requiescat in Pace," Desmond mutters and grabs the silver shining papers from the man's hands. Mission accomplished, he thinks and wonders – does he have to make his escape or would the Animus shift him to another time frame now? He never really knows for sure until it happens…

Then reality crashes down on him – with a literal hammer to the back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... yeah. How about that.


	23. Chapter 23

Ezio crouches low on the rooftop, watching the scene below as Luciana dives into a pile of hay and Beatrice rushes over the ground, silent and fast, like feather in flight. Moment and she's climbing up the wall across the street, running few steps up until she reaches a window sill and then dragging herself up, quick and agile.

The guard returns then, having finished his leisurely stroll around the building on which Ezio is sitting. He walks, slowly and casually, towards the hay – and then he's gone, dragged into it by Luciana. There's no sound – except from the other rooftop, where a foot grind against the ceramic tiles as Beatrice takes a guard there, knife to his back and hand on his mouth to keep him from shouting as he falls.

 _Beautiful_ , Ezio thinks, as Beatrice quickly rummages trough her victims pockets, coming away with coin and knives, and Luciana rises from the hay, brushing it off her shoulders. They both look up to him and he motions _forward_.

And forward they go. Beatrice dives from the rooftop she's on out of sight while Luciana crouches and advances – both having already selected their targets. Ezio watches them advance for a moment with deep satisfaction before vaulting down from the rooftop.

This is _not_ why he recruited them – but _damn_ there is something deeply gratifying watching his work on them pay off. Two months into Beatrice's training and mere month into Luciana's, and they're already so good. Of all the things Ezio has done, all the things he's invested on, he already knows _this_ will be his greatest accomplishment. Damn the Apple and damn the Pazzi and the Borgia – the _Brotherhood_ will be his legacy.

There is sound up ahead that dies a quick death on someone's knife as Ezio strolls up ahead. The women are mere flickers of white in the shadows as they work on removing the guards, efficient and silently deadly, working in tandem and advancing up head, kill at a time. Luciana takes the guards on the ground while Beatrice removes the ones on the rooftops, and like that, the road is cleared ahead of Ezio with glorious show of competence.

Then they're both at his side again and Ezio lets the gratification of their process and advancement pass. They have work to do.

"The fortress is up ahead," Beatrice says. "The gates are shut."

"We could hardly expect them to lay out a welcoming carpet for us," Luciana says and looks to Ezio. "Should we go around to see if there's way to enter?"

"I think we must," Ezio says and nods to them both. "Good job. Go."

They nod, sharing a smile – and then they're rushing up ahead. Ezio looks after them for a moment then he follows.

It's a small, as fortresses go – a mere outpost at most. Not big enough for a town within it, never mind the fact that it's location on the side of the mountain makes it an awkward place to set up a town anyway. There is a town near by, however – or rather a small village – but even it is at some distance away. San Felice supplies the fortress its food and other amenities, but aside from that they have little to do with the fortress.

Which is just as well, really. No civilians to worry about.

Against the dark night sky the fortress walls loom high, however. Small thought the place might be it's well fortified – and heavily guarded with guards outside the gates as well as inside, and more besides on the walls. Watching from the shadows of a tree, Ezio concentrates until he can see people outlined by red – good dozen at single glance.

This is the place, it must be. Why else would a wayside fortress this small be so well guarded?

"Master," Luciana appears to his side. "I think I found a way – the wall is worn on the southern side, the mortar has flaked off. I think we can climb it."

Ezio nods, still watching the guards. "Find Beatrice," he says. "And then follow me. This place looks to be full of guards – we need to do this carefully and with stealth –"

There is a sound like cannon going off, an enormous _crack_ of an explosive force. Immediately Ezio and Luciana both drop to a crouch, and while Luciana looks wildly for the sound's origins, Ezio looks to the fortress' gates. He can see the light, blooming inside – fire.

"It came from the fortress," Ezio says, while on the walls the guards are thrown into disarray, rushing off the edge of the wall to see what was going inside. The guards in the front of the gate are peering inside as well, leaning onto the barred gate to see.

"An accident maybe?" Luciana asks. "Keg of gunpowder catching fire?"

There's another explosion in the fortress, just as Beatrice appears to their side, crouching down as they are. Together they watch and listen to the ensuing chaos coming from inside the fortress – several explosions in rapid succession.

It could be a gunpowder storage going off, but…. But if it was, the explosion would be bigger, surely? Even though small, the fortress has guns – it should have massive gunpowder storages and if they caught on fire, the explosion should rock the earth. Ezio should know – it felt like the whole world had been shuddering when Monteriggioni's gunpowder stores went up.

An attack from within the fortress then.

"Damn it," Ezio mutters and stands up. If Leonardo – and _Miles_ – were there and in middle of that… "We need to get inside – Luciana, show Beatrice where you – " he stops as movement on the wall catches his eyes – on top of the gates, they are working at rising the gates hurriedly.

Well, that solves that.

"Come on," he says. "Hug the wall and stay low – they look to be too busy to notice us but let's not take chances. Once inside, stay out of harms way – and find da Vinci's workshop."

"Yes Ser Ezio," the women answer together, nervous but determined, and together they head for the wall, for the slowly opening gates. Inside, there are sounds of fighting.

"Stop – Assassin!"

Ezio looks around quickly – but the shout comes from inside the fortress. His eyes widening, Ezio runs low but fast to the gates to see what's going on. There are guards still there, their weapons discarded on the ground as they try and see what is going inside – they're down and dead before they notice anything. While Beatrice and Luciana hurriedly drag the bodies out of the way, Ezio looks inside – and gapes.

There's a fight going on right in front of the gates. A solitary blue figure in white robe and heavy armour, going masterfully against good dozen men glowing red in Ezio's vision – and holding his own with such ease that it's making the men around him wary. Ezio's eyes trace the robe to his hooded head – and to the beak on it.

An Assassin.

There's a crack of a small bomb, and then cries of men a smoke explodes out and covers the fighters in it's miasma. Then they are falling, soldiers coming down left and right clutching to their necks and bellies, torn open with quick stabs and swipes of unseen blades.

A man – glowing golden in Ezio's vision – turns to escape, to run to the gates. One of the two metal gates is open now, or at least open enough for a man to slip under it – the second one however is still on the ground, not having so much as budget yet. It doesn't matter however – for the Assassin spots the fleeing figure and then breaks through the crowd of soldiers, taking few running steps and then _launching_ at the man, his legs curling up to aid the momentum of his jump and his hands coming down, a hidden blade protruding from each bracer covered wrist.

Together, the pair crash to the ground, the Assassin's momentum carrying him down onto the man's back, both blades sinking into the man's back with ease. The Assassin bows his head and reaches for some papers the man had been carrying – and then he's attacked from behind, his distraction giving one of the soldiers a perfect opportunity to not only attack, but _wind up_ for the attack.

It's like a bell going off, as the hammer comes down to the man's back, sending him on his knees on the ground.

Ezio moves before he can think on it twice – there's a knife on his each hand and then he's throwing them both out – first at the man with the hammer and the second at a man who is trying to aim at the unknown Assassin with a rifle. Luciana and Beatrice, quickly taking his example, do the same, Luciana going for her crossbow while Beatrice takes out her throwing knives and aims them perfectly.

The Assassin, thus given a moment to recover, catches himself with one hand and groans, his grimace barely visible past his hood. Then he turns and, gritting his teeth, launches into another assault against the guards, their numbers now weaned out. The last three come down in four brutally quick movements as the Assassin stabs the first, deflects the sword of a second before tripping him onto the ground and while stomping onto his head to break his neck he aims a bracer at the third, and shoots him right in his face.

Then the Assassin is gone, a roll of parchment tucked into his robes as he runs, without hesitation, into shadows. Moment later, another explosion sounds behind the buildings.

The gates are still now – the guards above have stopped trying to raise them. No point anymore – the people aiming to flee are all dead on the ground below, after all.

"Go," Ezio says to his students. "Luciana, lead the way – we need to get in there, now."

"This way," Luciana says and together they run.

It's gruelling to climb the wall, its handholds sparse and far apart and difficult to catch onto – they must take it slow which, considering the _noise_ coming from within the fortress, is like torture. There are more explosions going on, the noise of them _ungodly_ , like someone had taken a thunderstorm and crammed it within the walls and now it was fighting to break out. Under their hands and feet, the walls _shudder._

Ezio makes it up first and while he crouches on the wall, waiting for his students to catch up, below him the fortress _blazes_. There are fires everywhere, climbing the sides of buildings and crawling on rooftops. There would be no stacks of hay to dive into here, Ezio thinks and looks for a way down.

Well, at least all the guards are being very efficiently distracted by the mayhem this Assassin is causing.

"Master, what do we do?" Beatrice asks, once the women have caught up and Luciana, shaking a little after the climb – not her favourite part of being Assassin, that – crouches down beside them. "With this going on…"

"With this going on, no one will much mind us," Ezio says, gritting his teeth. "We need to find Leonardo's shop before it's _destroyed_ in all of this."

"How are we going to do that?" Luciana asks, and another explosion booms through the fortress, making the flames below dance like being blown at by an enormous fan.

"Follow me," Ezio says, and then leads them down.

The whole fortress is in chaos. It's well built, all in all – all the buildings are stone and the rooftops are hardy, made to stand for bombardment both from modern weapons as well as more ancient variety. What this Assassin is doing is something entirely new, though – and already it's doing more damage than catapult or cannon might have managed.

The rooftops being too dangerous to scale, Ezio, Beatrice and Luciana run down the streets –and there they see the buildings either already collapsed or in verge of collapsing. There are streets awash with flames, walls and streets scorched and scored black, and somehow the flames are climbing the stone walls too. It looks like someone had poured burning oil all over the place – perhaps they had.

Ezio doesn't have time to ponder on it – he had friend in terrible danger to find. Damn his gift – it would be ever so much useful if he could use it to see through walls. Leonardo always glows brilliantly in his sight, very easy to spot even in a crowd – except, of course, when there's a wall in between. Miles should be easy to see as well.

At least they're not in midst of all of this, Ezio hopes. _God_ , he really hopes they're not caught in all of this destruction.

There's a flash of blue above them – the Assassin. Ezio keeps running while watching the man in the corner of his vision – the Assassin is scaling up the wall and to the gates and even at distance his mastery of motion is apparent as he takes the few guards up on the gates, and then goes for the gate mechanisms – to open them fully. 

Well now they have a quick way to get out of here. That's something.

The Assassin on the wall dives down, flipping gracefully in air so that he'll land on his back onto whatever he's falling. A Leap of Faith, performed with obvious ease of one who'd done it hundreds of times. Split of a second later he's out of sight – apparently he'd found the only pile of hay not yet on fire.

"Master," Luciana calls and points and Ezio turns to look.

There's a yard of some sort, a building that might have been a forge with lot of odd looking metallic struts strung about – the whole place is _ablaze_ , but Ezio can imagine what it used to be. What little remains of whatever had stood there before an explosion had completely destroyed it is too strange to be anything but one of Leonardo's war machines. He can almost make out its strange gears.

The Assassin had destroyed it – by planting one of his explosions right into it, judging by the looks of it. Is that why he is here, to destroy Leonardo's machines? But how would he even know about them? Only the Brotherhood back in Rome knows about Leonardo's machines – and this man is not one of theirs. Ezio knows all the Assassins of their Brotherhood back in Rome, and there's no one among them with skills like these, except him maybe.

There are guards up ahead, lead by a figure glowing gold – some sort of commander, then. They are rushing in something like formation towards one particular building, all of them nervously scanning the rooftops in fear of the Assassin and quickly forming a perimeter around the building they're going for. The commander tries the door and then slams his fist against it.

"Maestro da Vinci!" the man shouts inside. "For your own safety, open this door at once! We must get you out of here and into safety!"

That answers that, Ezio thinks and motions to the women – Luciana quickly swinging her crossbow down from her back and loading a bolt into it while Beatrice grabs a pair of throwing knives. Ezio quickly runs up the wall to the left of them and then, wincing a little at the heat wafting out of the burning building, he runs along the edge and jumps.

"Break the windo –!" the commander says – and dies under Ezio's blade and weight, crashing down below him along with a soldier to the left of him, Ezio's second blade on his back, while a crossbow bolt takes out a man to the right and another falls to a knife. While the rest are left in confusion about the Assassins in their midst, Ezio takes out the last ones with quick stabs and swipes with his hidden blades.

While Beatrice and Luciana come forward to check the guards to make sure they're dead – and to pick their pockets quickly, Ezio turns to the door and bangs his fist against it. "Leonardo!" he shouts inside. "It's Ezio – Beatrice and Luciana are here too! Come out –"

He barely gets out of the way in time as a white and silver shape crashes from the roof above him and the mystery Assassin takes stand between him and the door, both hands held up, blood stained hidden blades at ready. He's breathing hard and laboured and there's a bit of blood on his lips and for a moment he looks like he's about to launch attack. Then, as Ezio widens his stance just in case, getting ready for fight, the Assassin stops, lifts his head, and peers at him from under the white hood.

"… Ezio?" the Assassin asks, his voice quiet and very confused.

Ezio's mouth falls open as he spots the scar across the other Assassin's lips – and then the door behind Miles is flung open and Leonardo steps out, looking pale and worried.

"Ezio!" Leonardo cries and then crashes onto the Assassin – who lets out a pained grunt and falters. "Desmond," the artist gasps and catches the Assassin as he sways and almost falls to his knees. "You're injured –"

"It's not fatal," the Assassin says quickly, struggling to stay upright. "Broken rib or two – maybe four – _ow_. The armour took brunt of it, thanks. Are you alright?"

"We're fine," Leonardo assures, turning the man's face to him and looking at him searchingly. "Oh thank god, you're alright," he says then and his shoulders slump. "When the explosions started…"

"It's okay, everything went… more or less how I planned it," the Assassin says and grimaces, leaning towards Leonardo. He offers the man a pained, awkward smile. "You know… broken ribs aside."

Leonardo makes a wordless noise and pulls the man into a careful but tight embrace – which the Assassin slumps into with a sigh of relief, resting his hooded head on Leonardo's shoulder for a moment.

Ezio's mouth works silently as he watches them – and then there is blinding flash of light that paints everything perfectly white for a moment. The noise that follows it rocks the ground under them, making it shudder and tremble. As Ezio throws up his arm to shield his eyes from the light and the heat, wood and stoke crack and buckle at the impact of the searing hot wind that blasts through the fortress. Above the burning buildings, an enormous column of smoke rises up to the dark sky, painted in hues of red and gold by the fires below.

The gun powder storage had gone up.

"I think it's time to go," Ezio says tightly and turns to Leonardo and the Assassin. "Are you ready to leave?"

The Assassin grimaces and pulls away from Leonardo with obvious reluctance. "Should be. I got the gates open but they might not hold for much longer in this," he says, glancing between Ezio and the woman and then turning to Leonardo. "Do you have your things?"

"Here, I have it all here," another voice speaks and Salaì comes out of the workshop, carrying with him two tightly packed bags, papers and books sticking out from both. He also has, for some damn reason, a lute of all things strapped to his back.

"Ezio?" Salaì asks, peering at him with confusion. "When did you – never mind, doesn't matter now." He hands something to Leonardo. "She's all yours, Maestro."

It's a clay ball with seal of resin on top, and Leonardo looks at it nervously for a moment before looking at the Assassin. "You took care of the machine?" he asks, gripping the man's arm.

The Assassin nods and hands him something – the papers he'd taken from the man he'd killed at the gates. Leonardo looks them over and nods and while the Assassin motions everyone quickly to step back, Leonardo balls the papers up in his hands and throws them into the building he'd came from. As everyone backs away, Ezio feeling more and more confused by the moment, Leonardo draws a deep breath – and follows the papers with the bomb he's holding.

The workshop's windows blow out in terrible crash of breaking glass and in an instant the interior is completely overtaken by fire.

"There. _Now_ we may go," Leonardo says, sounding grim and determined. He takes one of the bags from Salaì and slings it over his shoulder. He looks at the Assassin. "Can you walk?" he asks, touching the man's elbow again.

"I can run and _climb_ if I need to – it's just not very pleasant," the Assassin says with a wince and turns to look at Ezio, Beatrice and Luciana. "Um," he says, clears his throat, and motions to the gates. "We should, uh…"

Ezio would _really_ like an explanation right now. He knows that scar, he knows that face – it's _Miles_ under that Assassin's hood of fine silk, wearing the robes and the armour like they were made for him. And they _were_ made for him too, Ezio realises, every strap and shred of cloth tailored specifically to him. And having seen what the man could do… he wore them for a damn good reason. Miles is an Assassin.

Only, Leonardo had called him by another name.

Somewhere in Ezio's memories, Minerva's words still echo, as years of work and hardships and loss coalesced into a message he couldn't understand which wasn't even meant for him. _The rest is up to you… Desmond_.

Everyone is looking at him, Beatrice and Luciana shifting their footing, nervously ready to go wherever he points them. There's roar of flames all around them, and sound of another building coming down in the distance. If there are any soldiers left in the burning fortress, they'll be too busy running away to mind them now – for a good reason. The place has been turned into a death trap.

"We have horses hidden little ways away from here," Ezio says, setting his jaw and turning around on his heel, motioning everyone to follow. "Come on."

Explanations would have to wait.


	24. Chapter 24

Ezio gets them a couple of rooms in an inn somewhere along the way – Leonardo is hardly paying any attention by that point. Desmond is listing in the saddle badly and towards the end has to be supported to stay on – in the end, Beatrice sits behind him to keep him up right and by the time his consciousness starts wavering, Ezio calls them to a halt.

It's some village, quiet and quaint and surrounded by vineyards and Leonardo sees none of its buildings or gardens as he takes Desmond by one arm while Salaì takes the other, and they all but drag the Assassin inside and into the room Ezio hastily procured for them.

"Can you tell me what you need?" Leonardo asks, as they finally get Desmond seated on one of the beds. "You know more of medicine than do I."

"I doubt that," Desmond gasps, leaning onto one knee with outstretched arm, his body twisted oddly – away from the injury, or to it, Leonardo can't quite tell. "Help me get the armour off, please."

They do that, Salaì working at one side to get the cape and spaulder there off while Leonardo quickly takes care of the other. Somewhere in the corner of his eye Leonardo can see Ezio direct the women to check the inn and the village – they've ridden for a good long while now, it's early morning now and sky is light, but there might be some soldiers there still. They are still in lands controlled by the family Borgia.

As Ezio comes to the door, looking grim and shadowed, Leonardo opens the chest guard straps and with Salaì he pulls the armour open. It's in a shape – not broken, Leonardo is happy to find, it had done its job and stayed intact… but there is also a dent in the back plate that makes him wince. With the armour gone Desmond groans and lists, his support gone, and he would have fallen over were it not for Leonardo's hand on his shoulder.

"You're gonna – have to look and see if any broke skin –" Desmond gasps against his side while shakily taking off the bracers and dropping them onto the bed. "I don't have a punctured lung but – if my ribs are out of place… I'm gonna need them put back in place, somehow – ooh _fuck_ –"

Getting the robe off him is easily enough done – Salaì opens it with quick fingers and spreads it out, examining it closely. "Well, you didn't ruin it completely," Leonardo's assistant murmurs, hiding his nervousness in busy work as he brushes stains off the silk. "I think I can save it."

"Well, so as long as the silk is fine," Desmond says and laughs – and then groans in pain.

"Let's get this off," Leonardo murmurs, and starts undoing the gambeson. It's then when Ezio finally steps forward to help, his hands sure but his face set, expressionless.

Something is wrong, Leonardo thinks – badly wrong. Is it Desmond's capability as Assassin, or his injury? Ezio still thinks Desmond is his son – that will muddle things terribly from here on out. Especially with what…

Later, Leonardo thinks as they push the gambeson down Desmond's shoulders, much to his obvious pain and relief both. Later, later. There'd be time _later_.

After the struggle of the armour and gambeson, Desmond's shirt comes off without much trouble – though it obviously pains him to lift his arms to ease it off. And then the damage on his back is revealed.

The injury is marked by red and purple swelling which seems to get worse as they watch – and it already covers a good palm sized area of Desmond's back on the right side, where the impact had caught him. Desmond breathes easier without the weight of armour and cloth, hanging his head, the back of his neck glistening with pained sweat.

Then he lifts a hand to feel around the injury, wincing and squirming at his own touch as he checks the ribs. "Oh, thank God," he groans, when his fingers find no broken skin. "That would've been a _bitch_ to fix."

"Let me see," Leonardo murmurs, and as Ezio leans in and Salaì looks away, wincing, Leonardo reaches to examine the injury. It's obviously tender, and the discoloured skin is growing hard underneath where the blood is pooling for the bruise, but he cannot feel any obvious bumps or breaks. Carefully following the line of ribs with his fingertips, Leonardo feels for them where he can, tracing them down and shaking his head. "I feel nothing out of place."

Desmond just breathes under his hands, his skin clammy and taunt, the long muscles of his back convulsing. His skin, Leonardo notices, is darker than his own – even against healthy skin his own fingers look pale.

"Cracked then, or if they're broken they've bounced back to place," Desmond says and hangs his head. "Your armour, Leonardo, was a god sent. That blow would've killed me."

"What _was_ it?" Leonardo asks, looking to the dented armour and grimacing at the damage. "Looks like someone took a hammer to it."

"Someone _did_."

It's Ezio who speaks it, and he should grim as he said it. "You got distracted," the Assassin says, looking at Desmond. "Left yourself wide open to attack from the back."

"You… saw that, huh?" Desmond asks and grimaces.

"Mmhmm," Ezio agrees. "It was impressive, until you got sloppy. You even completely missed how Beatrice, Luciana and I took out number of your opponents from behind the gates. What was that?"

"I was… sidetracked," Desmond mutters and shakes his head. "I didn't even notice. Thank you. And thank you, Leonardo, for the armour. It saved my life."

Leonardo swallows at that and then shudders. "I'm glad it did its duty," he murmurs. "Should you lie down?"

"I think it'll hurt more – I'm better now without the weight… and riding on horseback was not helping," Desmond admits with a shake of his head and looks up to Ezio.

Ezio is standing over them in full armour, his face hooded, his arms folded and his lips set in a firm line. Opposed to Desmond, now stripped down to the waist and disarmed, he looks terribly forbidding, and obviously sensing it too Desmond winces and looks down. Leonardo clears his throat, uneasy – and behind them Salaì makes a thoughtful hum.

"I think I'm going to see if they serve wine in this place," Salaì says in a rare display of thoughtfulness and tact, and sets Desmond's robe down. "I'll see if I can send some food up once you're done with… whatever you're about to do."

"Thank you, Salaì," Leonardo says, watching him go and then looking up at Ezio.

"Your burn," Desmond says, finally, quietly. "It's better?"

"It's been a month," Ezio says grimly and turns away, taking a bench that sits by the window and dragging it closer, sitting on it with a grunt. "We treated it with your concoction and it healed without issues. I don't suppose honey will fix broken bones, though."

"No, not really, no," Desmond murmurs, his body still twisted a little as he tries to not put his weight on the broken ribs. "I – we weren't sure you'd find us," he says then. "That's why I – we had to get out of there before Leonardo's machine was finished. We couldn't wait."

"They were threatening to kill Miles or Salaì," Leonardo says, shaking his head. "I couldn't sabotage the production like I usually do. And I doubt they would have let us live, once it was finished."

Ezio says nothing, looking at them darkly.

"You can't blame us for trying to escape," Desmond says, frowning at him. "And if the methods that you don't like – well, I couldn't very well take out fortress of two hundred and more guards just with blades. I needed something with bit more powerful, to even the odds. Sure, explosions don't go that well with the Creed but – it worked."

Ezio frowns and then shakes his head. "Oh, I don't care about that," he says and grimaces in frustration.

"Then what?" Desmond asks, confused and Leonardo squeezes his hands in his fists, uneasy. Ezio had found out about something in their absence, perhaps? Or something had happened? Or –

Ezio is looking at him now, his eyes dark. "You called him Desmond," he says, quiet and damning. "At the fortress, you called him _Desmond_. Why?"

Leonardo opens his mouth and then closes it slowly, He… hadn't even realised. Hesitant he turns to look to Desmond, battling guilt and conviction.

Desmond had promised to tell Ezio. It had never been Leonardo's intention to force him to share secrets that Desmond did not wish to share – but Desmond had promised to tell Ezio the truth about their connection at least.

The young man looks back at him darkly, and then closes his eyes and shakes his head. "It's my name," he says. "Desmond Miles – that's my whole name. Don't blame him – he didn't know until we were captured. And the first thing he told me to do was tell you the truth."

Ezio says nothing leaning back very slowly, his eyes narrowed. "What were the first words Minerva spoke to me?" he asks, his voice tight.

Desmond sighs and looks away. " _Greetings, Prophet_ ," he says quietly. " _It is good that you have come_."

"And then? What did she do then?" Ezio asks.

"She asked you to show her the Apple – and you did," Desmond says. "And then she turned to speak to me."

Ezio stands up and paces away few steps and then back again, like a caged predator. "How," he demands. "How were you watching? How did you see and hear what happened there? Is it another Piece of Eden?" he stops and looks at Desmond. "Another Staff, another _Apple_? Something else entirely?"

Desmond shakes his head while Leonardo tries to pick up the slack of Ezio's thought, try and figure out what his assumption must be. That Desmond was spying on him at a distance, perhaps – Piece of Eden might count for it. The truth, of course, would never dawn on Ezio – it is far too fantastical.

"Who are you?" Ezio demands to know. "Who are you, really? An Assassin, obviously, a master even. Are you from another branch? A _rivalling_ branch?"

"No," Desmond says and lifts his head. "Yes – maybe. It's hard to explain," he says. "You know how Minerva did what she did – how she was speaking to you? Do you know _where_ she was speaking to you from?"

Ezio stops at that, frowning.

"I did something similar – from other side," Desmond says. "While she was looking at you from the past, I was looking at you from the future – you were the convergence point where we met."

Ezio frowns at that, confused, trying to comprehend it. "Future," he repeats and then shakes his head, starting to pace again. " _Future_. Another _lie_? That is not possible, that is –"

"I come from five hundred years from now," Desmond says, watching him wearily. "There are lot of things you think are impossible which are common there. I looked at you with a machine they won't build for almost half a millennia – a machine that lets me experience the lives of my ancestors –"

"That's _ludicrous_ –"

"Ezio," Leonardo says and stands. "Think, my friend, of the clothes Machiavelli showed me – did they not seem to advanced, their construction too fine, too _mechanical_ –"

"Leonardo, my friend, I love you, but  _sit down_ ," Ezio says, pointing a finger at him. He breathes out and looks at Desmond again. "Explain this to me," he demands. "How are you here, why are you here?"

"Because I _failed_ ," Desmond grits out. "The warning Minerva gave you, I followed it and I failed. So they sent me back here, to fix it another way."

"The – the Sun," Ezio says, and paces a few steps again, and few steps back. He looks at Desmond, eyes narrowed. "The Sun burned the Earth?" he doesn't sound like he believes it. "Really."

"… no, I managed to stop it," Desmond answers and lowers his eyes. "But to do that I had to do something I shouldn't have. Their way of saving the planet was booby trapped."

"Oh, so now there is another end of the world coming?" Ezio asks and looks away. "This is ridiculous – this is _lunacy_. If you won't tell me the truth –"

"I _am_ telling you the truth!" Desmond snaps, half rising and then collapsing back down, clasping at his injured side and grimacing. "I was born on the year 1987, and I died on 21st of December 2012, and then I got sent _here_ on… I don't even _know_ what the day it was. I woke up in the damn Vatican Vault – it was all I could do to get out of the damn place in one piece. I ran through the district, I got guards on me, killed bunch of them and then jumped into the Tiber River and then I did my best to hide – and you found me the next day. How's that for a damn landing, for fuck's sake…" he trails off in a pained grimace, curling in to the injury.

Leonardo reaches for him, wincing in sympathetic pain – Desmond waves a hand at him, rubbing at his side with a wince. Ezio watches them, frowning and then, after moment of hesitation, he sits back down.

"Why did you lie?" he asks,

"What the hell was I going to say?" Desmond asks, his head bent low in pain. "Hi, I'm from the future, your warning sucked, let's save the world? Yeah, that would've gone down well."

Ezio shakes his head, still confused, but the outburst had at least broken through his immediate denial it seems. He's thinking now, Leonardo is relieved to find.

"I didn't know what the hell I was supposed to do," Desmond mutters. "I just died and then Minerva stuffed my head full of knowledge I hadn't even had the time to sort through and then you were just _there_. I wasn't expecting any of it, I had nothing planned – I panicked."

"Minerva was the one to put the knowledge into your head?" Ezio asks, confused. "Why?"

"So that I can change history," Desmond sighs and looks up. "I'm here to speed up technological progress – introduce some ideas humans will eventually had century or two earlier. Flight, aviation – stuff that will eventually get us to space."

"Space?" Ezio asks with a grimace.

"Outer space – what's outside the atmosphere, above Earth – where the stars are," Desmond explains frustrated. "It's a whole thing people will do eventually. We even land on a moon. Hopefully earlier this time, though."

"Land on the moon," Ezio repeats faintly. "You're _mad_."

"Probably, yeah," Desmond says with a weary laugh. "Hell I don't even know what people think the moon is in this time," he says in realisation and looks at Leonardo. "What do they think the moon is?" he asks, sounding dubious and worried.

"Aether," Leonardo says faintly. "According to the Ptolemy's model of celestial spheres – the sun and moon and planets are disks of quintessence that revolve around the Earth."

Desmond stares at him for a moment, his face growing a little blank in his incomprehension. "What? How does that even make sense? _What_?"

"I do not hold much regard for the theory, obviously," Leonardo adds faintly and clears his throat, turning to Ezio.

The Master Assassin is looking between them. "I don't…" he starts to say, then stops to think, running a hand over his beard and then turning to Desmond. "You are from the future," he says. "You are _from the future_?"

Desmond makes a face at that, rubbing at his ribs. "From five hundred and ten years from now, yeah," he agrees, turning to look at him.

"And the warning, the message Minerva delivered, it failed," Ezio says slowly, shaking his head. "Five hundred years and it failed?"

"Well I didn't get it five hundred years ago, did I?" Desmond says, frowning. "I got it seventy two _days_ before the Flare. Which, now that I think about it – you knew _five hundred years_ before anyone else. Did it never cross your mind to do something about it?"

"What?" Ezio asks.

"You could've written it down, you could've talked to someone about it – Leonardo, hell, _Copernicus_!" Desmond says and throws his hands up – and then groans in pain. "Fuck, don't even know if you've met the guy yet, but whatever," he groans and folds in on himself. "Five _hundred_ fucking years – that's hell of a lot of advance warning, but we didn't get it, no one got it, because you did nothing with it."

"What I supposed to do?" Ezio asks, looking confused and offended. "Minerva did not say when the disaster would occur, she explained so little – and the message wasn't meant for me to even understand –"

"That's the nicest excuse isn't it? You weren't supposed to understand… so you didn't bother to try," Desmond says in pained grunt, straightening up again and glaring at Ezio. "And because the message wasn't for you, you don't need to do anything about it. Nothing to worry about – it's not like the world was going to _end_ or anything."

"Hey now," Leonardo says, trying to calm him down. "You need to settle down – you're injured –"

"No, I'm not going to settle down – this is fucked up," Desmond says and points a finger at Ezio. "Why did you do nothing with the warning Minerva gave? You might not know about sun and whatnot, but you could understand the actual _words_ she was speaking. She told us a story, it wasn't that complicated – the sun flared and earth burned and it's going to happen again, it's not that hard to understand! Why didn't you do anything with it?"

Ezio shakes his head, wordless, confused. "I must have," he says then and blinks confusedly. "Surely I must have."

Desmond harrumphs. "You didn't," he says. "No one knew anything about it until I relived your memories – and I only got the warning just months before the event. It wasn't much time to do anything about it."

Leonardo frowns a little, leaning back. He hadn't realised Desmond had only so little time to contend with the message. Three months only – that is not much at all, to save the world with.

Ezio's mouth works and then snaps shut, and he looks down. "I thought you were supposed to… I thought that was how it was meant to be – that you would be in the right place to stop it," he trails away and then shades his head. "I don't understand. I thought it was already decided."

"Yeah, well. It wasn't," Desmond mutters. "Future isn't written in stone and the First Civilisation people can fuck up too. They thought everything was all set but it wasn't – they were betrayed long ago and I got to reap the fruit of that. Lucky me."

Ezio looks up at him, his face troubled. "Then – my destiny –"

Leonardo turns to him, blinking, while Desmond sighs. "Aw shit," he murmurs and hangs his head for a moment. When he speaks it's with obvious reluctance. "Ezio – there is no _destiny_ ," he says almost miserably. "Minerva really fucked you over when she called you a prophet. It's just a word she used to make the whole thing make sense to you in a context you'd understand, make it seem as serious as she needed it to be – but it's just a word. It's not the end all be all of your life."

Ezio stares at him, his face blank with confusion and incomprehension and Leonardo thinks he can almost understand. Ezio has always been a man craving for a purpose, be it revenge or mission. To be called a _destined prophet_ had probably made a lot of sense to him, it might have even been comforting – making his life _worth_ its trials and hardships because it all had a purpose. _This is the meaning of my life, and now I have fulfilled my role, my life is complete now_. Lot of men would like that, Leonardo thinks, and get great comfort from it.

"There's a reason why the Creed is what it is," Desmond says grimly. "It wasn't originally about the laws and rules of men and society. It applies to fate, too. Or lack there of, rather."

"You… you grimaced when I said it," Ezio murmurs. "I remember – is this why?"

Desmond rolls his eyes and lets out a small laugh. "No, that was just your pronunciation," he admits.

"It's Arabic," Ezio says, shaking his head. "La shay´haqiqah, koulo shay´moumkin," he says. "Nothing is true, everything is permitted. These are the words passed over centuries, spoken at the initiation of every Assassin."

"Yeah, exactly, that," Desmond says and huffs out another weary laugh. "Its يس هناك ما هو صحيح، فكل شيء مباح, not… that. Also, the translation is wrong, by the way. What you were trying to say actually means _nothing is an absolute reality, all is permitted_. That's not your fault though – that's just how it got passed down from Altaïr, how he liked to say it."

Ezio's mouth opens and then closes and he shakes his head. Leonardo looks at Desmond though. "You speak Arabic?" he says in interest. "Do you write it too?"

Desmond shrugs one shoulder. "Passably," he says and turns back to Ezio. "Sorry," he says then. "You got kind of the short end of the information stick here – having to piece the Brotherhood together from bits and pieces. I got the benefit of lot more hindsight than you, though. Don't mean to rub it in."

"No, it's…" Ezio shakes his head and then leans forward. "You know of Altaïr?"

"I watched him too," Desmond says. "He's another one of my ancestors. I… kind of the result of lot of Assassin bloodlines – I have a lot of ancestors in the Brotherhood."

"And you watched us… to learn from us?" Ezio asks, still trying to make sense of it.

"I watched you because you had the Pieces of Eden at one point or another in your lives," Desmond explains with a shake of his head. "And you hid them – you will hide the Apple of Eden. Eventually. And I needed it to save the world. It wasn't always my choice watch you though – I was a Templar prisoner when I was made to relive Altaïr's life. Technically still was, when I was reliving yours."

"Then Templars still remain in your time," Ezio says faintly and Leonardo lowers his gaze, dismayed. "The war still continues."

"No, we lost it," Desmond says and sighs. "The Templars won this war way before my birth. We're still fighting but… in my time, most of the world is under their control, one way or the other – and the Brotherhood is close to gone."

Ezio's lips part. "How?" he asks faintly.

Leonardo shakes his head, confused. "But… your time, people have more means, your technology, your abilities…" he says confusedly. "How could the Templars _win_?"

Desmond shrugs. "They have those technologies too. They had time, money and power, and the willingness to take advance of everything they can," he says simply. "My time runs on capitalism, not nationalism – most trade and industry is owned by people looking for personal profit, not by states. Templar ideology thrives in it – their order is run like a business in future, rather than… whatever it is right now. And it works a lot better than the Brotherhood's system does, sadly."

While Leonardo tries to wrap his head around that – it seems… entirely unorthodox, the whole idea, just as fantastical as Desmond's descriptions of humans travelling outside the sphere of Earth itself – Ezio lets out a groan and buries his face in his hands.

"What the hell," Ezio groans, rubbing his fingers over his brows like trying to stall a headache. "This is – too much," he mutters and then looks up. "How do I know this isn't just another lie? What you're claiming is not possible, Miles – _Desmond_ , whatever your name is. It is fantasy. It is _madness_."

Desmond turns to him and then lets out a breath. "When you were born," he says then, "it was silent – you didn't breathe for nearly a minute. Your father was at the bank, he almost missed it – you were already born when he arrived. You didn't live until he was holding you, telling you, _You're an Auditore, you are fighter, so fight._ Ask your mother – I bet she remembers."

Ezio's face is completely blank, and he says nothing while Leonardo swallows, staring at Desmond in wary fascination. He's… really been watching Ezio that long? Since _birth_? But Ezio is so much older than him – how could he have seen it all and not be older? Does time not pass in the machine of memories, or…?

"I've been watching you from the day you were born, Ezio," Desmond says and looks away. "Ask me anything only you would know – I will know it too."

For a moment Ezio says nothing, watching him. Then he shakes his head "No," he says. "I'll ask you something I _don't_ know, yet. You know where I will hide the Apple – so I will eventually get it back. Do you know where it is right now?"

Desmond opens his mouth and then frowns. Then he groans and hangs his head. Leonardo moves to his side to help him in case the pain is spiking, but the young man waves him off, shaking his head. "Oh, for – I could've grabbed it," he mutters bitterly and looks up. "It's in St. Peter's Basilica in Rome – hidden on the pavilion on the courtyard. I was right there and I didn't even think – god _damn it_."

Ezio lets out a huff. "Well, whatever you are," he says and shakes his head. "You're still definitely _Miles_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Talk™. More Talk™s coming up, probably. There's a lot for these guys to go through, haha.


	25. Chapter 25

"So, your name," Salaì says, while Desmond does his best to not fall off the damn saddle. "What is it, actually? The ladies and Ezio call you Miles, Leonardo calls you Desmond when he thinks no one is listening, and you introduced yourself as Emilio. It is _very_ confusing."

"Emilio?" Beatrice asks, lifting her head. "You called yourself _Emilio_?"

"It was the first name that popped to my head, sorry," Desmond says, one arm gripping the saddle between his legs for support, the other barely holding onto the reins. Riding with broken ribs is _not_ his idea of fun. "And I couldn't very well introduce myself as Miles the Assassin novice, when the Borgia captured us." He glances at Salaì. "It's Desmond Miles, anyway – though call me Miles. It's safer."

"Miles," Salaì says slowly, leaning back in his saddle. "I don't know if it suits you. You don't look like a Miles."

"Well it's what I am – it's the name I was shackled with at birth. You'd have to marry me to get it off me," Desmond snorts and winces – and then everyone is staring at him, incredulous. "Never mind, it's – nothing," he says and sighs. Fuck, his ribs ache.

Leonardo and Ezio are riding a little ahead – talking about him, probably, with the distance Ezio is keeping between them. They'd decided that, despite Leonardo's status as possibly wanted man by the Borgia, the safest thing for now would be for them to return to Roma to regroup. Whether the Borgia would think he died or escaped the destruction of the Monte Circeo Fortress was still left to be seen – but he'd be safest overall when he was surrounded by assassins. So, to Rome they would go, to decide what to do after that.

It would probably be best for Leonardo – and Salaì too – if the Borgia ended up thinking they died in the attack. Hopefully by the time the fires died most of the bodies there would be too badly burnt for any sort of recognition – which really makes Desmond regret that they hadn't though to strip some of the dead soldiers down and throw them into Leonardo's workshop to play the part of the Maestro and his supposedly dead assistants.

But then again, it's not like Leonardo is going to _stay_ dead. Even Ezio seems to know better than suggest that Leonardo should just disappear – his pleas to Leonardo's better sense had all started with _for now_ and _until it's safe_ , promising it was only temporary. Man like Leonardo da Vinci could not just vanish from the world, after all.

But if no one knew of his fate for month or two…

Desmond watches Ezio's and Leonardo's backs for a moment and then lowers his eyes. Damn but he wishes they could've gotten a carriage instead. Horses are easier – to avoid various patrols on the road they're doing a lot of off-road riding. The rhythm of horse hooves is definitely not agreeing with him, though.

"Why is _Desmond_ not a safe name to use?" Luciana asks, sidling up to him on her palomino mare. "I've never heard name like it."

"The Borgia might have," Desmond answers. He's not sure if his name had ever gone down anywhere except on Minerva's message, probably not, but it's better to play it safe. "And I guess it is unusual name."

"It is – where is it from?"

"I have no idea," Desmond sighs and when the woman gives him a look. "Sorry, I don't – mean to be harsh. I don't actually know. It's just my name, I've never really thought about it."

"Hmm," Luciana answers.

"And you," Salaì says to her. "An Assassin now? Well, well. I see where Ezio Auditore does his hiring."

"Now what is that supposed to mean?" Luciana asks, amused more than insulted.

"Well, apparently _Miles_ too was found in Rosa in Fiore – it makes a man wonder what is going on in that place."

"Nothing that would interest you, Little Devil, I'm sure," Luciana chuckles. "Though maybe you should try it for a size for once – you might even like it. Softness of a woman's bosom, the wet of her quim, nice and –"

"Ugh," Salaì answers and shudders theatrically with disgust. "Please, Luciana, we just _ate_ –"

Desmond laughs – and regrets it immensely.

Beatrice isn't laughing though – she's looking at Desmond, frowning. "I wish you would have told me," she says, squeezing the reins in her hands tightly. "Why did you – I thought you were just a student like I am. I thought we were the same. Why did you pretend to be something you're not?"

Desmond shakes his head with a sigh. He's wearing the robe Salaì made for him – it's lighter to wear than the gambeson, and doesn't put any undue weigh on his ribs. It's convenience… but it is also symbol. Ezio had told him to wear it, after all, and that means something.

Probably that Desmond's days as Assassin novice are now behind him.

Not that it's the robe that marks the Assassin, really – that was tradition that began and probably also died with Ezio. Assassins around him and abroad, people he didn't train personally, wore whatever they chose to. Even the hood isn't exactly compulsory – often, it's even a detriment to their work. Most Assassins like to blend into a crowd – but Ezio… Ezio is all about sending a _message_. So, he'd given the Assassins under his purview a uniform, made them into a recognizable. He wanted them to be known – and feared.

And now, Desmond robes aren't just homage or _looking the part_. They had the Master's, the future Mentor's, blessing on them. Or his curse, whichever it is in this case.

"I'm sorry," Desmond says – there's not really anything else he can say. "I didn't do it to make a fool you, I hope you believe that. And I never lied about my skills, did I?"

Beatrice presses her lips together to a tight line for a moment and then shakes her head. "No, you didn't," she mutters. "But you didn't tell the truth either."

"I guess not," Desmond admits. "I'm sorry. There isn't really an excuse I can give. I really didn't mean to trick you though."

"Right," she says and then sighs. "Well, the Master says it's fine and so it is. That is all I need to know."

It's not fine, though, Desmond can tell – and not just because Beatrice slows her horse down to keep the rear instead, effectively excusing herself from the conversation. Salaì looks after her and arches a brow at Desmond as Luciana quickly drops out of the line as well, to keep Beatrice company.

"You, whatever you are, are a mess," Salaì says and then shrugs. "Well, I for one I am not mad at you. Thanks to you, we're out of that damn place, so I'm grateful. And I bet Leonardo is too – has he _thanked_ you yet?"

"Salaì," Desmond sighs, wincing.

"I suppose it's a bit gauche to do anything with Ezio around," Salaì muses and inhales a wincing hiss through his teeth. "Your own _father_. Tsk, tsk, that must be so awkward. Oh to be fly on the wall when he finds out. Unless he knows already?" he asks, perking up.

"Salaì, shut up," Desmond says wearily.

"Not in your life," Salaì says, looking up ahead and at Ezio and Leonardo. He shakes his head. "You really can't make this sort of story up. Oh, if only I could write, I would write a love story more tragic than…" he considers it for a moment. "Hm, I can't think of one where one loved both the son and the father. And I do not think Oedipus quite fits the narrative. Perhaps it is an original tale."

"I swear to god, Salaì," Desmond says and looks at him. "I'm going to knock you off your horse."

"Psh, you can barely stay on your own right now, you'll just end up knocking yourself off," Salaì says almost delightedly. "Please, do try." But he does end up falling quiet thought, probably, has more to the fact that Ezio has stalled and is waiting for them to catch up, than Desmond telling him to be quiet.

In no time at all, they catch up with Ezio who kicks his heels lightly to get his horse to sidle up to Desmond's.

"Go ride with your Master," Ezio says to Salaì, who hesitates, looks like he's about to argue – but at Ezio's severe look decides otherwise. Salaì clears his throat, giving Desmond a very meaningful look and then he kicks with his heels, sending his horse galloping for a moment, quickly catching up with Leonardo up ahead of them.

Desmond glances at Ezio and then grimaces. They'd talked before, sure, but aside from the robe thing and whatever symbolism Ezio laid on it and deciding to go to Rome for now… nothing had been decided yet. Nothing about him, anyway.

Ezio cranes his head to look over his shoulder, to make sure that Beatrice and Luciana are far enough behind to not over hear, and then he looks to Desmond. "I am going to claim you as my son."

Desmond almost chokes on his next inhale, and is forced to grab the saddle with both hands to keep himself up right as pain _lances_ through him like a fucking spear. That was… not what he expected. "I – see?" he asks and blinks, confused and in pain. "Why?" he asks then.

"It's the simplest explanation," Ezio says and looks ahead, his face set. "The truth is too confusing and better left unshared. I will claim you as my bastard son, and that will explain your existence here. No one beyond us needs to know anything more."

"I'm not going to just _hide_ , Ezio," Desmond says firmly, shifting in the saddle a little "That's not what I'm here for. The whole point of this is for me to share what I know – what Minerva gave me."

Ezio draws a breath and then releases it slowly, looking conflicted. "I – understand that," he says, though he obviously doesn't like it. "But even so it will work better if you have roots here, in this time – you can't go around claiming you're from the future. People will think you're mad."

"Well I get that," Desmond huffs and leans back on the saddle – bad idea, ow. "There's a reason why I tried to hide it."

"And why you did not argue when people made assumptions about you," Ezio guesses.

"Well, it was…" Desmond trails off. It was Ezio making the assumptions, mostly, from what he could figure it out. "It wasn't completely wrong," he says and looks away. "So I'm guessing you want me to keep up the pretence for Claudia and Maria too?" he asks, not entirely sure how well he likes it.

Ezio looks at him and says nothing for a moment. "Why did you cry at the sight of my mother?" he asks then, half curious and half suspicious.

Because she's _your_ mother and that's what you want to do most times you see her, Desmond thinks uncharitably and shakes his head. "I haven't seen my own mother since I was sixteen. She… reminds me of her," he admits. "It doesn't matter," he mutters then and looks at Ezio. "Do you want me to lie to them?"

Ezio sighs and turns to look ahead. "You still would be lying if Leonardo had not discovered the truth," he points out.

Desmond can't really deny that. "I was lying to _everyone_ ," he says uncomfortably. It's not really much of an excuse but… "It's a bit different when you go around picking and choosing who deserves to know."

Ezio says nothing for a long moment, as they ride on, on the clatter of hooves on the well beaten path and the distant voices of the others sounding in the air.

"My family has lost much," Ezio says then. "And we did not think we would ever rise above our losses. Claudia cannot have children and I doubted I ever would even try to. My mother… has held no hope for grandchildren in many years."

Desmond says nothing, awkward. He hadn't actually known that about Claudia but it wasn't really that surprising. She's not that much younger than Ezio, after all – already in her forties, with no family, no husband, no children. In these times, it kind of has connotations. Even if she's from a disgraced, hunted down family like the Auditore, the Auditore still had _influence_ and power when they still had Monteriggioni, and Claudia managed it for decades. She probably would have had a family… if she could have.

"My mother's mind is fragile and for years she has not stood as firm as she has since meeting you," Ezio says grimly. "The strength she mustered when Claudia and her girls searched for any whisper of where you might've been taken… to learn this truth might break her will again. I don't think I can allow it."

Desmond awkwardly rubs at his side through his robe and saying nothing. His back hurts. His heart hurts. _Everything_ fucking hurts.

"Claudia might understand, if we explained this all to her, she might even come to accept it as truth – but it would twist things for her, and I don't know if she could forgive you for your lies," Ezio adds mercilessly. "Claudia _never_ forgives."

She wouldn't, would she? She might decide to act polite, for the sake of Maria if nothing else… but she would never forget or forgive him. Nor would she ever let him forget either. Claudia was, above all things, a very strong and very opinionated woman and not shy about sharing her opinions either.

"That only makes me feel worse," Desmond mutters miserably, looking away.

"You should have thought of that when you begun lying," Ezio says and looks at him. Something in his face eases a little and he sighs. "We were born into nobility and we can't really forget it – it only makes us more bitter about our losses. You here make it seem like our family might yet have a future. Lying is… what it is. But I don't see it being so wrong, to give them that little bit of hope."

"You know," Desmond says slowly, glancing at him. "You will have children eventually. That's how I am here in the first place – you do eventually get a family."

Ezio's fingers clench on the reins and then he sighs. "Don't tell me about it – I won't be able to stop myself from asking more," he says quietly.

Desmond looks at him and then turns his eyes away, thinking of Sofia. She'd be in Venice right now – it's a little sad to think it, but Ezio and Sofia had kind of missed each other. Ezio had just seen Minerva's message and settled in Monteriggioni more permanently when Sofia and her family took refuge in Venice, wasn't it? And then, after, he headed for Rome instead…

"Me being here probably already has changed events," Desmond says unhappily. Would Ezio do his pilgrimage for Masyaf now? He could just ask Desmond for everything he learned there, after all. If he did and then never went on that quest… would he ever even meet Sofia?

"If I ever meet a woman I would wish to marry, I want it to happen on its own – not as it's been foretold," Ezio says grimly and harrumphs bitterly. "There is no destiny, after all."

Desmond bows his head at that and says nothing, pressing his lips together and swallows the apology.

Ezio turns away and shakes his head. "I would prefer it if the truth of you did not reach beyond Leonardo and myself," he says then. "But I know how well you lie, so, if you want to make a worse mess of things, on your own head be it."

"You don't even want to tell Machiavelli?" Desmond asks, surprised.

 Ezio's lips twitch downward. "There are some doubts about his loyalties," he admits.

Desmond blinks, confused – and then remembers. La Volpe had believed that Machiavelli was working for the Borgia, wasn't it – leaking information? Almost assassinated the guy too. "He's loyal," Desmond says and Ezio turns to him. "The leak is a mercenary and a thief he trusts, not him – he was at Monteriggioni too."

Ezio frowns at that and then nods slowly. "You will point him out to me," he says and then sighs. "Still. The fewer people know about you the better, I think. Machiavelli doesn't hold much respect for Minerva's warnings in either case – or for the Ones Who Came Before or their technology. To him the Apple is a weapon to be used or destroyed. You'd be one too, if he knew."

He's probably not wrong about that. Machiavelli's world view is kind of… stark that way.

"Alright," Desmond says finally. "I wasn't really even planning to tell anyone anyway. If you think Claudia and Maria shouldn't know… I won't tell them."

Ezio nods and relaxes slightly on his saddle. For a while he says nothing and with a sigh Desmond looks ahead. Leonardo and Salaì are arguing about something further up the road, Salaì making grand gestures while Leonardo slumps down, annoyed or miserable or both. Around them, the forest is growing darker – the day is turning to evening. It's also starting to look familiar – they're not too far from Rome, now, Desmond thinks.

"What you did at the fortress. It was… very impressive," Ezio says suddenly. "Very loud and noticeable but effective. You single-handedly took down the entire fort. Not many could do the same."

"Having bombs made by Leonardo da Vinci himself helped," Desmond says wryly and with a sigh tries to stretch out to a less pained angle on the saddle – which of course doesn't work.

"From what I hear, knowledge on how to make them came from you," Ezio says and looks to him. "It's too soon for me to name you a fully fledged Assassin yet, but as far as I know, you _are_ one. If you stay in the Order, I will use you as one."

Desmond pauses at that. " _If_ I stay?" he asks warily. It's his choice, now?

" _If_ you stay," Ezio agrees. "There are still things we need to go over – and once you heal, you _will_ help me get the Apple back," he adds very firmly – no choice in that matter then. "But, as Leonardo has so kindly pointed out to me… changing the future is a difficult task to do from the shadows."

Desmond nods at that. "Yeah," he agrees. It's why he never agreed to stay forever – only until the Borgia were gone. That was few years away still, though – hell, Cesare Borgia wouldn't die until five years from now, wasn't it?

Damn – it's weird to think of time, of his own future, in terms of _years_. In five years he'd be thirty. If he lived that long. Five years of life he wasn't ever going to get in future. All things considered, he's got a pretty good hand dealt to him here, bad lies and fuck-ups aside.

"Well, I have some healing to do," Desmond muses and shifts in the saddle. "I guess it'll give us time to figure things out. I won't be good for much anything in a while."

Ezio snorts in agreement.

Ahead of them Leonardo throws his hands up at something Salaì has said and almost falls of his saddle while the devil of an assistant laughs, shameless.

"What?" Ezio asks and Desmond realises he's smiling.

"Nothing," Desmond says and looks around. The grounds around them are really looking familiar now. "Are we heading to La Volpe Addormentata?"

"We'll take the sewer entrance from there to Tiber Island," Ezio agrees. "There we will decide our next move."

* * *

 

If nothing else, Machiavelli is happy to see Leonardo safe and sound. The Mentor even _hugs_ the man, saying, "It is good to see you safe and well, Maestro, and out of enemy hands," which honestly is the most emotional reaction Desmond thinks he's ever seen from the man. It might just be because Leonardo here means he's not out there making weapons, but still.

"It is even better to be here, I assure you," Leonardo admits with a weary laugh. "I can't say I much enjoyed my employment under Cesare Borgia."

"I imagine not," Machiavelli says and clasps the man by the shoulders. "You are welcome here at Tiber Island for as long as you need."

"With any luck, people will think Leonardo perished at Monte Circeo," Ezio says. "Best we keep it that way for now."

"Yes, with any luck," Leonardo answers wryly and then sigh. "I suppose I could use a break from work at any rate. I fear I might be taking you up on your offer for a good long while, ser Machiavelli."

"You're welcome to do so, I assure you," Machiavelli says.

Desmond himself gets somewhat more conflicted reaction – Machiavelli looks at the robe he's wearing and gives Ezio a very long look after. Ezio shrugs one shoulder, folding his arms and looking entirely unrepentant. "It is good to have you back as well, Miles," Machiavelli says, glancing down at the belt around Desmond's waist and arching a brow. "I see there is a long story to accompany your rescue, however."

Desmond just sighs, bracing a hand against his side. Horseback riding followed by climbing around in the damn sewers… "You can say that again," he says, quietly wishing he could go lie down for a bit.

"It is also _very_ great that I am here and all in once piece, isn't it?" Salaì mutters under his breath somewhere behind him. "Why is nobody ever happy to see me?"

"I'm happy to see you," Luciana says, smiling at him and winding an arm around his shoulders. "This world would be lesser without its little devils."

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, my dear lady. I am angel in disguise."

"Mmhmm."

Machiavelli, completely ignoring them, turns to Ezio. "News of the fortress destruction have already reached the Vatican – it is a marked blow to Borgia forces and their morale. Even though few knew of it, they were relying on the secret weapon produced there for their campaigns against Sicily. You destroyed it, I assume?"

"Miles did," Ezio says and looks to Desmond. "He's the one who burned the fortress to the ground too. Our rescue was, in the end… a little too late."

"Indeed?" Machiavelli asks, arching a brow at Desmond. "And how did you manage that, Miles?"

"Well there was this inventor who got given access to lot of gunpowder," Desmond says and wavers on his feet a little.

"Salaì and I build Miles tools, weapons and armour in secret," Leonardo admits, looking him over worriedly. "Including quite bit of bombs."

"And not smoke bombs either, judging by the amount of fire they caused," Ezio agrees, casting Desmond a look. "How did you not get yourself burned, using them?"

Desmond shrugs – and instantly regrets it because _ow_. "I didn't actually use them myself – I used them as mines. I planted them around the fortress over the last few days, as close to key locations as I could get them," he explains. "And then I triggered them at distance, planning to take out as much of the fortress down as fast as I could, and then get Leonardo and Salaì out once the numbers got taken down enough."

"Triggered them at a distance?" Machiavelli asks, frowning a little.

"By lobbing smaller bombs at them from the fortress walls," Desmond explains and reaches for nearby wall to take support on. "It wasn't very graceful but it worked. The bombs I threw triggered the bombs I planted, and -" he makes a haphazard _explosion_ sort of gesture.

"That is a… unusual strategy," Machiavelli muses.

"But it worked – the whole place was on fire by the time we got there," Ezio says and shakes his head. "Miles did get injured however – and really should go lay down now."

"Yeah, I probably should," Desmond agrees, sighing with relief.

"Let me help you," Salaì says quickly coming to his side.

"No, let me," Leonardo says quietly but firmly. "I need to check on your ribs anyway – the riding cannot have done you any favours. I'm sure we can continue this later, once we have all rested? It was a long ride, after all," he says to Ezio and Machiavelli.

"Yes, I'm sure we can talk more later," Machiavelli says, motioning them to go and turning to Ezio. "I have some news from the Vatican – there have been some changes since Juan Borgia's death…"

Desmond hesitates a little as Leonardo comes to his side. His ribs don't really need checking, he thinks, and there's not much Leonardo can do if they are getting worse, but…

Leonardo looks at him, steady and determined and Desmond sighs and nods. With the man hovering over him slightly, Desmond leads Leonardo to where he sleeps at the Tiber Island hideout. Salaì, he's relived to note, doesn't follow – he's being turned away by Luciana, who is cheerfully leading him towards the kitchen instead.

It's nice to see the Brotherhood growing, Desmond muses distractedly. And Ezio was even recruiting the same way he had last time too, Beatrice first, then Luciana… it would be Vittorio up next, wouldn't it, if things went as they had? He's not been recruited yet, however – the men's quarters in the hideout are still empty, bar from him and his chosen bed and the paper planes on his bedside table.

Leonardo clears his throat and Desmond shakes his head, sitting down on the only bed that's been made, wincing as the move stretches the skin of his back. Leonardo stands over him, hesitant and motions at his belt.

Silent, Desmond unbuckles his – Ezio's – belt and then unbuttons the robe, letting it fall open. He's more used to shrugging the thing off his shoulders now, but it's not pleasant.

"I'm still not sure about the wisdom of not binding your ribs," Leonardo admits, sitting down beside him to examine the bruising. "Surely they should be immobilised for proper healing."

"If they're in their proper places, it's better to leave them be," Desmond says, leaning forward and breathing in and out slowly as Leonardo traces the cracked ribs. "Compressing them might make them crack and press inward and collapse my lung." Also, compressing broken ribs hurts like mother fucker.

"… ah," Leonardo says, his fingers pressing gently around the bruise, and barely brushing over it as he follows the ribs. His fingers are warm and little rough from working at the forge and with wood, his palms calloused and firm.

It's the first time since the fortress that they've really been alone – and though Desmond has been trying not to think back to what happened before the explosions started… it's there now.

"I don't think they have gotten worse," Leonardo says after a while. "You might very well be right about not needing compression."

"Hmm," Desmond answers and hangs his head for a moment.

"Ezio intends to name you his son," Leonardo says then, awkward.

That's… really not how Desmond hoped this would begin. Frowning, he lifts his head and looks up at the artist – Leonardo is looking away, at the paper planes on Desmond's bedside table. "Right," Desmond says and looks away. Well, it's a gentle sort of let down, he muses. And – really… what else was he expecting, honestly?

Whatever this is, whatever he ever even for a moment hoped to get from it… it's just too damn awkward for anything to actually happen, isn't it? What with Leonardo's decades long torch for Ezio, and Desmond being… whatever the hell he even is these days…

"I hope I didn't presume too much, but…" Leonardo licks his lips. "I asked Ezio if I might take you as my student."

It takes a moment for the words to actually register.

"What?" Desmond asks, lifting his head. "No, wait – _what_?"

Leonardo coughs. "I – wanted to make sure that it is at all possible, before I broached the subject with you," he says and fiddles with his hands, glancing at Desmond. "You are somewhat old, but I'm sure I can justify it should anyone ever question it. It seems like a likely solution to your mission here… depending on the future and however things resolve, as far as my own career goes, of course," he adds and coughs again, awkward. "I must hide for now, but hopefully I might one day work in public again."

Desmond gapes at him, utterly wordless.

Leonardo looks at him and offers a smile. "As my student in matters of engineering and such, you would have a greater chance of proper publicity for your future works," he says, not quite modestly. "My own accomplishments in such matters aren't exactly unknown, after all. Like Ezio being your father, you being my student would… make things simpler…" Leonardo trails away awkwardly and then looks away.

Desmond shakes his head, still not sure what to say.

"Only if… if that might be something you'd be interested in, of course," Leonardo adds then, slightly less sure now.

"Jesus _Christ_ ," Desmond finally breathes, and Leonardo frowns a little, looking awkward and hurt. Desmond shakes his head quickly. "No, I mean – yes. _Yes_ , I'd like to be your student. Of _course_ it's a yes."

Leonardo looks back up to him and then he smiles – it's like sun coming out behind clouds and Desmond swallows, suddenly breathless. There is still strain on Leonardo's face, lines around his eyes, he's still so tired and worn from the month of hard work and stress, his beard a little unkempt and his freckled face pale… but God, he's _beautiful_.

"Of course, there are still unresolved matters," Leonardo says then, looking down. "In all likelihood I must hide for a great while – here or somewhere elsewhere. And even after that, I do not think I'd like to say in Rome…" he looks away. "I have no patron now and little prospects for the future until I get one I can safely work with – there is the matter of the Apple as well…"

"Right. There's lot to do, yeah," Desmond says, staring at him, feeling weirdly twitchy and urgent. "But one day."

"One day," Leonardo agrees and smiles, little crafty and eager. "In the meanwhile, as you languish in injury and I wither in inaction… perhaps we might finish your Aviation Codex. And start on the Medicine one, even. I have been thinking that I would very much like to illustrate them both for you – perhaps we might even get them published, one day…"

Desmond shakes his head in wonder and reaches to kiss him.

Leonardo stops him with a hand against his lips, frowning. "That… is not necessary," he says. "Please – whatever Salaì has said, I do not expect such things of my assistants, or my students, and definitely not of you."

"Necessary," Desmond repeats flatly. "For god's sake, Leonardo. Do you think I kissed you at Monte Circeo because I thought it was _necessary_?"

"I don't know why you did it but – mph!"

Leonardo flails and then presses a hand on Desmond's chest – but Desmond grabs him by the sides of his face, sinking his fingers into his hair, holding him close. The angle of it's awkward, though – his back does not agree with it at all, and his ribs _scream_ in agony as his body twists towards Leonardo. It's worth it, though – Leonardo doesn't push him away.

Desmond pulls back, stroking his thumbs along the edges of Leonardo's beard, under his high cheekbones. "I kissed you because I _wanted to_ kiss you," he says. "The timing was awful, but…"

Leonardo stares at him, wide eyed and little flushed. "And that is something you can do," he says faintly. "Kiss a man simply because you want to?"

Desmond lets out breath. "Where I come from, this isn't a crime," he says quietly, resting his forehead against Leonardo's, staring into his eyes. His back aches like hell but he doesn't care. "Doing it without permission is, though, and I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry. Can I kiss you again?"

Leonardo makes a plaintive little noise and answers him by leaning in and claiming his lips in turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The finish line for this fic is looming ahead. 3 more chapters, I think, or thereabouts. 4, if people want explicit smut.  
> (Also I know Claudia had husband and might've even had kids and whatnot in the books, I don't care, it fits the narrative of this fic.)


	26. Chapter 26

"What do you think?" Ezio asks, slowly waving a hand around at the front hall of the hideout. "It's still a little sparse yet, but things are starting to pick up now."

"It all looks very fine," the new recruit says, somewhat uncertain. "There's a… lot of art." Apparently more than he'd expected from an Assassin hideout, too, judging by the quiet incredulity of his voice.

Ezio lets out a small laugh. "Yes, unfortunately we have a bored artist on the premises," he says dryly, turning his eyes to the corner of the hideout Leonardo and Salaì had claimed as their own – which is steadily filling with canvases, the walls already getting quietly covered in papers and designs. Lot of them are off various flying machines, of course. "So we must endure some beauty in our lives. Beatrice! Where is Leonardo?"

"Down in the sewers with Miles, I think," Beatrice says from where she's sitting, perusing maps over a table on the other end of the hall. "Something about water flowing – I don't know. I think they mean to open another path through the tunnels."

"Or maybe they'll make one of those flowing water garderobes," Luciana says, from where she's looking over the record books from the bank – at Claudia's not so secret orders, no doubt. "Miles is always talking about them. I think I would like to see it."

"You only say that because you're on chamber pot duty this week," Beatrice says, leaning her elbow onto the maps and her chin on her hand.

Both of them are looking curiously over at Ezio.

Ezio sighs, running a hand over his beard. Miles is still supposed to be taking things easy, letting his injuries heal, but no. Let Leonardo get a _single_ notion to his head, and Miles will be there, urging him on without shame. Ezio for a moment wonders if there is any trouble they might get into in the sewers but… it's Miles.

It's better he goes check in on them, just in case.

He turns to his newest recruit. "Well, you'll meet out resident artist eventually, probably. He's forever underfoot," he says and shakes his head. "In either case, Beatrice, Luciana, come meet our newest member."

Vittorio is not expecting women, that much is obvious – and how well he'd fit in might be revealed here, in how he'd react to them. As Beatrice and Luciana rise, both in gambesons, chest armours and spaulders now, Luciana with a crossbow on her back and Beatrice with sword at her side, Vittorio almost flails into a bow.

"Beatrice Simone," Beatrice introduces herself, clasping a hand over her heart and bowing. "Assassin apprentice."

She's followed by Luciana who also clasps a hand over her heart, though she curtsies instead. "Luciana Lanase, Assassin initiate."

"Ladies," Vittorio says and then sputters, "Vittorio Vitello. I'd be, uh, a recruit?"

Ezio watches them over and then nods. Well, Vittorio doesn't seem shocked or outraged, just surprised – and awkward. It makes him oddly nostalgic to Miles' reaction – he hadn't batted an eye. Though that was his strange future sensibilities, most likely – things are more equal in future, it turns out.

"I hope you ladies can show Vittorio the ropes around here, help him get situated," Ezio says, clasping Vittorio on the shoulder. "Right now, can you show him to the armoury and see if there might be a gambeson his size? I'm going to go check up on Leonardo and Miles, make sure they haven't managed to drown themselves down in the sewers."

"Sure," Beatrice says, giving Vittorio a look over, while Luciana smiles, full of mischief. "I think I've seen some big enough – right this way."

Vittorio throws Ezio a frankly frightened look and then follows the women. Ezio looks after him, feeling vaguely sorry – it's a bit like throwing an awkward calf at wolves. Well, if the man is ever going to work with the women, he'd need to get used to them.

Shaking his head, Ezio turns to the hallway leading to the sewer entrance and, with a deep breath, descends down into the tunnels

It takes him a while to find them. The tunnels are more expansive than they used to be, more of them having been opened up in the last couple of months by the concentrated efforts of la Volpe's thieves and Bartolomeo's warriors, both of whom also use the tunnels extensively. They're more a maze now than anything, leading into various entrances around the city. What they aren't, however, is actually functional sewers. The water ways within are all dry, with only ancient dried moss marking where water used to flow.

Should Leonardo get his way, though, traversing these tunnels would become worlds harder – and filthier.

Ezio ends up finding the two half mad engineers eventually by the sound of their voices. Miles, explaining something ludicrous to Leonardo again. "… people pumped water up to high places, water towers and such, so that the pressure kept the main's flowing, I think – I never really looked into it, sorry, but it makes sense to me. Anyway, eventually there were machines to maintain the pressure instead, so water towers became kind of obsolete, I guess."

"Machines to maintain pressure – like in those engines you mentioned, where they work by steam pressure?" Leonardo asks, his voice echoing eagerly in the tunnels.

"I guess – though I might be wrong and it worked completely differently. I really never looked into it, I'm sorry. I just enjoyed the fact that it did work," Miles says and sighs. "Working toilet and shower and faucets and sewers in every house. If there's anything I miss about future, it's that – _plumbing_."

"Hmm," Leonardo answers. "And the waste water – what was done about that? It flowed into sewers and then…? Did they pipe it to the sea?"

"Ah, no, we have waste treatment plants, which cleaned the waste water of solids and impurities and whatnot," Miles says, and Ezio eases his way around the corner to see them. They're sitting on the side of the tunnel, joined at shoulder and hip with their feet lazily propped up – on the floor around them there are papers, drawn full of charcoal sketches. Mapping the tunnels, then.

"Cleaning waste water," Leonardo murmurs, leaning his head to Miles' shoulder as he tries to imagine it. "With series of filters, I suppose?"

"Probably. Lot of chemicals too, I bet – sorry I can't tell you more precisely, I really don't know," Miles says and looks up as Ezio's foot grinds against the dry, dead moss under foot. "Ezio," he says, and Leonardo immediately lifts his head.

"You know we have perfectly good rooms and such for you to have future-history lessons in," Ezio comments, pretending he doesn't see how Leonardo shifts subtly away from Miles. "I don't think sewers are the right place for such things."

"Nonsense, sewers are the perfect place to talk about sewers," Leonardo says and reaches for the papers he had scribbled all over. "Also, we have figured out how to get these sewers up and running again."

Of course they had. "Well, do tell," Ezio says with a sigh, hoping it will be too difficult to manage and he may keep the sewers nice and dry and easy to use.

"If we only repair the aqueduct," Leonardo begins, "We will have fresh water flowing into the city again. It would not only benefit the sewers either – it would also supply water again to the Trajan Baths and other such locations around the city –"

Ezio sighs. "Just repair the aqueduct," he repeats. "Leonardo, the thing is thousands of years old and in ruins, you can't just repair something like that. It was build by the ancients –"

"Oh, psh, it was built by people and it's not all that complicated," Leonardo says and draws out another sketch, this of the said aqueduct. "Certainly it would take great deal of money and effort, but to have fresh water so easily supplied into the city, and not just supplied but _constantly flowing_. With the sewer system restored and water in flow, the benefits to the city -"

"Leonardo –"

"The life in the city would greatly improve – and Desmond has told me about the benefits of washing, how it _changes_ the world, to have running water," Leonardo says, his eyes all but shining. "Did you know how many illnesses can be prevented just by regular bathing? Just by _washing your hands_?"

Ezio opens his mouth and sighs and then looks at Miles – who is staring at Leonardo with a fond smile and stars in his eyes. Good God, they make each other so much worse, don't they? "That may be so, Maestro," Ezio says. "But who on earth would have money for such a project? It's one thing to restore these sewers, all we need is to clear out the rubble and set up new supports, but there are entire _sections_ of the aqueduct missing –"

"You are investing a lot of money around Rome, aren't you?" It's Miles that asks this, looking up at Ezio with that damn knowing look in his eyes. "You're restoring businesses," the young man points out. "Investing in black smiths and banks and tailor shops… and they pay you back for your investment."

Ezio opens his mouth and then sighs. Yes, he is doing that, damn him. Originally it had been just so that the Assassin Order would have place to purchase arms and get their gear repaired without having to worry about getting it al reported to the Borgia. Now, with Claudia's insistence on importance of money…

"Few hundred florins a month is hardly a great income. I get better money from couple hours of pick pocketing. I think I would have to have the whole city paying for the sort of funds you'd need," Ezio grumbles.

Miles arches his brows at that, and Leonardo all but _glows_ in eager excitement.

"Okay, okay, that's enough," Ezio says. "Rein it in before you get too ahead of yourself. Besides, Miles, aren't you supposed to be _injured_ – what are you doing, climbing around in the sewers."

"I'm sitting down, aren't I?" Miles says. "And it's been well over a month – my ribs are better."

Ezio narrows his eyes. "Are they, indeed," he says and the young man coughs, Leonardo scratching at his beard awkwardly and looking away. "In that case…"

* * *

 

They decide to take on the Vatican district at the dead of night. It sadly doesn't mean that there will be fewer soldiers present – no, it usually means there are more. But in the dead of night it is easier to slip by them and at least the churches and cathedrals will be mostly vacant. Including, Ezio hopes, St. Peter's Basilica.

"I assume you know the way," Ezio says, as they peer over the Tiber River in the shadow of Ponte Sant'Angelo, "seeing as you've ran rampant in the district before."

"It was just the one time," Miles says, his eyes nailed across the river, on a guard doing his rounds on the walk way. "But I should know the way."

"Lead on, then," Ezio says. Miles takes a breath and then he's off – racing over the poles on the water, silent and swift. Ezio watches him go for a moment, wondering if that's what he looks like in action – a white shadow, a wraith, moving without sound and seemingly without weight. No wonder people scream murder when they see him – he must look like a ghost.

Shaking the thought aside, Ezio launches forward, taking on the poles after Miles, and following him across the river.

Miles does know the area, though whether it is from true first hand experience or the life relived in the future, Ezio doesn't stop to ponder. There is rehearsed knowingness to the young man's movements as he turns sharply and then skips under the bridge, skipping over poles and then jumping at wall he couldn't have possibly known to have perfect handholds for him if not for experience. Ezio stops to balance on the wooden pole, watching Miles shimmy his way sideways on the wall and eventually jump onto a pier there, before following.

Ahead of him, Miles jumps up and scales the wall, peers over the edge of the wall at the courtyard beyond – and moment later, hauls down a dead body that collapses right next to Ezio. As Miles vaults the wall and vanishes somewhere into shadows above, Ezio picks the body's pockets for knifes and coin before throwing him into the Tiber river, shaking his head.

There is eerie skill and perfection to how Miles does things occasionally. It's there now – there is no hesitation, not a movement wasted – he does everything like it's been rehearsed a thousand times and he remembers it all like steps of a dance. It's… uncanny.

Ezio pushes it off his mind, and simply follows. Uncanny or not – it is effective.

In no time at all, they are racing the rooftops of the Vatican district, more in equal footing now. They take out the rooftop guards when ever they can without rising alarm, Miles making quick use of a crossbow while Ezio uses knifes – and like that, the Basilica soon looms ahead.

"We'll get in easier if we climb the roof," Miles says, hovering on a ledge, crouched and predatory. "There will still be guards. Rodrigo won't leave the apple unguarded, even when it's hidden."

"I assume you have your smoke bombs?" Ezio asks, glancing at him.

"You want him to know you have it again?" Miles asks, turning his head, the hood shielding his eyes.

Ezio considers it. It would be a blow and a message to the Borgia, but… it would turn Rodrigo's eye on him again, on the Assassin Order. They're hidden and secret now, kept safe by the fact that most still think him dead and the assassin's gone. But should Rodrigo and Cesare turn their efforts to finding the Apple, finding him, again…

"No," Ezio says and sighs. "But we've already slain people here – and dead guards raise questions. Rodrigo will hear of them, and he will no doubt check on the Apple as soon as he can. It's unavoidable. Still… if we can retrieve it without rising alarm and get away in silence…"

"I _hate_ stealth missions," Miles mutters – and then he's gone, jumping down from the ledge. Soundless, he tumbles onto the even pavement below, rolls to his feet and then he's already running across and to the wall. Ezio watches as the younger man shimmies up the wall and onto the Basilica roof. Then, shaking his head, he follows, vaulting down and tumbling forward to take the brunt of the impact before getting to his feet and dashing across.

Miles waits for him, crouched down on the rooftop. Together they sneak across the rooftop, and to peer down at the courtyard. "There," Miles says. "It's in the… egg thing. When you push on the scales on the side of the Chapel entrance, they will open to reveal Apple."

Ezio nods and looks around. There are four guards on the courtly yard, standing by each entrance. "I'll take the ones on the left."

Miles nods and then turns to attend to the other two. Ezio leaves him to it and sneaks up on the other entrance, hovering over it until he's sure he has an angle – and then he jumps down, blades extended and easily sinking past the collars of the Papal guard armour, sending both men to the floor, and to oblivion.

Across the courtyard, Miles has performed an identical assassination, and as Ezio withdraws his blades, Miles does the same. They're like mirror reflections.

Ezio swallows the shudder and stands. While Miles keeps an eye on their surroundings, he walks up to the pavilion, to the carven egg statue and then he _looks_. In the corner of his vision Miles flows reassuring blue – and the egg _blazes_ with golden light.

Ezio presses on the stone scales – and there it is, the Apple, rolling right into his hand. It's like being snapped at by electric cloth, a sharp spark of pain and then numbness. Incredible power at his fingertips – at the cost of weakness.

Ezio moves to push the apple into a satchel at his waist and then stops, turning to Miles. The young man is standing little further away, watching him warily, his head bowed and his eyes hard – and there's a thought in Ezio's head that isn't his own.

"We should visit the Vault while we're here," Ezio says, begrudgingly and then shoves the Apple into the satchel, shaking his tingling hand to get rid of the feel of it's unnaturally warm, smooth surface. "I think there's another message waiting for us."

Miles sighs and hangs his head. "I was afraid you'd say that. Let's go then, let's see what she has to say now."

* * *

 

The Vault is exactly as Ezio remembers it – the same it has been in many fitful, confused dreams. The walls, made of metal he doesn't know, their symbols alien and strange – the hum of strange power in the air. Again, Ezio can't help but thin, _this place is alive,_ like the vault is the belly of some ancient metallic beast and not part of a building.

Miles takes the place in without comment, and then drops down to the enormous well on the floor, climbing down the symbols on the wall and then dropping to the floor below. Ezio follows, joining him soon after and then turning to Miles.

He knows what to do, Ezio thinks, _knows_. There is a tingle in the air, awareness, and it's looking down on Miles. For a moment Miles says and does nothing, bearing the brunt of that ethereal gaze without moving.

Then he walks to the middle of the circular space and holds out his hand over it, fingers spread, palm aimed downwards. In answer, the floor lets out a _clunk_ and as Ezio watches, the floor opens and Staff rises from the floor.

Without a word, Ezio steps forward and takes out the Apple again. It snaps into its place with a click and then light flares out of it, perfect direct beams, casting shapes into the walls around them. A wall opens, and Miles turns to it.

"I don't think I'm meant to come with you," Ezio says.

"Come anyway," Miles says, his voice tight, and sets forward. Ezio hesitates a moment before grabbing the Apple off the staff and then, with his teeth set, moving to follow. Behind them, the Staff begins to retreat back into the embrace of the Earth.

It's the same chamber where Minerva had delivered her message. It glows anew with golden lights which flicker as Miles passes by – reacting to his very presence the way it hadn't reacted to Ezio's. He really is… somehow deeply connected to the place, Ezio muses and then hesitates.

A flicker, shimmering like heat haze over hot stone, and Minerva hovers over Miles.

"You are here," the Goddess says.

"You don't say," Miles answers with a sigh and pushes his hood back, revealing his short hair, slightly sweaty from their earlier action. "Good to see you again, Minerva."

"From my perspective we never have met, Desmond," the Goddess reaches forward and while Ezio swallows his unease, she strokes a hand down Miles' shaven cheek, her expression ruining the fond effect of the gesture – there is no emotion on her face. "But it is good to see you here, now."

Miles shudders and says nothing.

"You know our message, you know the work ahead of you," Minerva says. "I cannot see into the future that sent you here, that time is now gone and so are those that aided you. Your variable has thrown off the calculation – the future has changed."

"Will it work?" Miles asks.

"Time will tell," Minerva says and then turns. "I am here to help you in your task. Watch, and memorise. This is what you must prevent."

It's the same light show as before – she shows Miles the celestial spheres, the sun at the centre of that cosmic revolution, not Earth. As Ezio watches and tries to make sense of it, Minerva shows Miles the power of the sun, the angle of its future attack – the strength with which it will attack. There are numbers and symbols whirling in air, and Miles takes them in with low lidded, hazy eyes – eyes, which shine with inner light.

"Do you have it?" Minerva asks.

Miles blinks and then light in his eyes fades. "I have it," he says and runs a hand over his forehead. "That's a lot more power than I thought. The Shield will have to be _enormous_. Hell, it'll probably be easier to pull an asteroid in the way than build one big enough…"

"The task ahead of you is not an easy one," Minerva agrees and looks away from the images of the Sun. "But you have time, now. Use it wisely."

Miles runs a hand over his eyes and then lifts his head. "How much time?" he asks. "Tell me. I need to know how much time I have to get this done."

"You have all the time you need," Minerva says – and then she's gone, her golden figure flickering and then fading away, leaving Miles reaching out for nothing. The light around them fades, only flickers of it remaining on the walls like fireflies sparking in the metal, and Miles sighs.

"Well that's not disconcerting at all," he mutters, rubbing a hand over his neck and turning to Ezio. "How much of that you got."

"Probably nothing at all," Ezio admits warily, watching him. "She did something to you," he says, and squeezes his hands into frustrated, helpless fists.

"They're always doing something to me," Miles sighs and turns away from where Minerva had been. "We should probably go."

Ezio nods and then winds an arm around his shoulders – Miles hides it well, but he's shaking. Ezio sighs and squeezes his shoulder. "Come on," he says quietly. "Let's head back. I'm sure Leonardo is eager to hear what occurred here."

That brings a very predictable smile to Miles' lips and he nods. "I'll be able to make better sense of it with his help," he murmurs.

"I'm sure," Ezio says with a hum, thinking of the way Leonardo and Miles lean into each other when ever they think they're not being observed. He coughs. Well, the night is strange enough. Might as well get it over with. "You know, about Leonardo –"

"Please _don't_ ," Miles says quickly.

Ezio looks at him, arching a brow at him. "You are very fond of him," he says then, a little amused despite the concern and unease.

Miles groans. "Don't," he says. "I know what you're thinking and seriously, you don't have to. _Please_."

Ezio looks at him, frowning a little. Miles grimaces and looks at him imploringly – but under the embarrassment he determined too. He'd stand his ground, whatever that ground was. Humming, Ezio looks up.

He has never understood Leonardo's inclinations – they do not make sense to him, how a man could desire such things. He's never held it against Leonardo, or at the very least he's tried not to… but he's never understood. Despite everything, all the things he'd learned over many years, all the evils he'd dealt with and all the terrible things that had became so commonplace… something about it still seems just a little unnatural to him, much to his shame. He could never imagine himself, willingly…

It had nearly destroyed their friendship, his inability to comprehend it. Leonardo would have bowed out in favour of Ezio's unbending sensibilities, he would have done it with both pain and grace and never would have held it against Ezio. Ezio refused to allow it. Despite everything, he loved Leonardo dearly. He did not understand him, but he loved him.

And Leonardo loved him back, with a passion that made Ezio _guilty_ , with passion that had refused to die even at face of murder and torture and years apart.

Now Leonardo looks at Miles with similar fondness and it makes Ezio uneasy. Miles is fond of Leonardo in turn, puppyishly so, his affection bordering on hero worship… but admiring a man is different from seeing him as lover. If Leonardo, by accident or intent, asked such things of Miles…

"Ezio," Miles says quietly. "I'm the same as him."

Ezio blinks, and turns to him. "You – you are?"

"Well, roughly speaking," Miles says, uncomfortably. "It's natural to me in way it's not for you. You don't have to worry about it. Leonardo can't ask me anything I won't give him willingly."

Ezio swallows and looks ahead. They're at the indention now – with a climb up the walls ahead of them. "Well," he says and clears his throat. "That's… there's something else," he says, even more awkward now.

"I know. I've watched it all through your eyes, how he spent good twenty years hopelessly in love with you," Miles says and Ezio almost trips over his feet. Miles huffs out an embarrassed laugh at his sake and then shrugs. "You can't give him what he needs. I can. So just give it your blessing and forget the whole thing."

Ezio says nothing for a moment, turning to him. Miles meets his eyes, embarrassed but deadly serious. "Are you sure?" he asks quietly.

"Yes," Miles says simply and with conviction.

It's still somehow uneasy. Miles looks so much like Ezio does, it's like looking into mirror that makes him younger. Surely… surely that is _awkward_ – it certainly is to Ezio himself, to think of it in these terms. But at the same time… all one has to do is to look at how Leonardo looks at Miles to know it is not the looks that had him enthralled. Miles has the man ensnared with something far more enticing. And in return, Leonardo understands Miles without explanations.

There is a common ground there, held high aloft and unreachable for anyone but the two of them. Miles and Leonardo suit each other, perfectly.

Ezio nods. "Very well," he says. "You have my blessing."

Miles smiles a little, bowing his head for a moment and then turning to the walls. "You know it's usually the suitor asking the permission, not the son," he says and heads forward to begin climbing.

"I am _not_ talking to Leonardo about this," Ezio says, wincing at the very thought of it. He's not sure he could survive the humiliation. "Do what you want – I wash my hands of you."

"Sure thing, _father_ ," Miles laughs, and together they head home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of regular old father son bonding... hah. and ooh look at that, chapter count.


	27. Chapter 27

"Hello, Leonardo," a warm voice speaks and Leonardo looks up from the writings, to see Maria Auditore standing over her, smiling.

"Madonna Maria," he greets her and hurriedly gets up, checking his hands to make sure they're not all over ink before going to kiss her. "I did not think you were coming to Tiber Island – does Ezio know you are here?"

"I accompanied Claudia," Maria says, pressing a kiss to his cheek before leaning back. "She is going to shout at Ezio I think – he _invested_ in her favourite tailor and they have now increased their prices. She is not happy about it."

"Ah," Leonardo says, smiling a little at that, awkward. "That ought to be very… interesting." Such investments, especially the sort Ezio does now, goes a little beyond his will to understand it. What Ezio is doing is not technically speaking legal in Rome, after all – it borders on rebellion against the Pope's rule, really.

… And occasionally it seems a little bit like bullying on Ezio's part. With his investment comes the promise of the protection of the Assassin Order, after all – the much more valuable part of the deal, Leonardo supposes, to the actual merchants. It does mean they need to not worry about their shops being stolen from, but their neighbours tend to get the short end of the stick there. Already there have been… incidents.

Still, Leonardo knows that above all else, Ezio maintains the Creed and part of that is the important of harming innocent. That's something.

"What are you working on now, if you don't mind my asking?" Maria asks, looking around the tables.

"Ah, some sketches, only," Leonardo admits, taking out a few papers and stretching them out – one of them is on the aqueduct, the other is illustration for Desmond's Codex. "I'm afraid the atmosphere of the Assassin's Order's hideout isn't very conductive to painting. And people complain of the smell. Oil paint has strong odour."

"That is a pity – but this is wonderful," Maria says, eying the aqueduct drawings. "To think the Romans build such things, and all to transport water!"

"They were very clever yes," Leonardo says, smiling and tracing the drawing with his fingers. "To bring water from further away, it lessens the risk of having it be contaminated by the local sewers…"

He lets himself be carried away by the uplifting fantasy of having such amenities now, in their time as well. Maria follows the explanation with a soft smile, seemingly content just listening. There's a soft quality to her attention nowadays, gentle and a little forgetful.

It broke his heart to see her, back in the Auditore Villa in Monteriggioni – how lost in her own head she had gotten, how faded compared to the strong, vivid woman she'd been. She is better now, but something had been lost in her over two decades spend in catatonic mourning.

Loss of a husband and two of her children, the eldest and the youngest at that… it's not something a mother recovers from, Leonardo muses. Still, if she can smile with such gentleness, she is not drowning in the sorrow anymore, at least.

He keeps her entertained for a while, explaining his work, showing her some of the illustrations, "These are made for Miles, I see?" she asks, with sudden sharpness, which makes Leonardo glance up.

"Yes, for his Aviation Codex," Leonardo agrees. "We have decided to collaborate on the project – I will illustrate and add my own thoughts while he writes the main body of the text. Hopefully one day we might get it into printing – though not anytime soon, I don't think."

"Our Miles, the published author," Maria chuckles. "That would be something, wouldn't it? There hasn't been a proper scholar in the family in…" she trails away and shakes her head. "But I suppose that is still long way away."

"… only doing what you yourself asked, Claudia, I don't see why it is suddenly a bad thing," Ezio's voice sounds over the hall, as Claudia marches in, looking annoyed and irritable. "You said the Order needed an income and now I am giving it one."

"By buying out every small store from here to the Vatican District!" Claudia says, throwing her hands up. "You know each and every store you have so far invested in, they all have had to raise prices to keep up with their payments to you? How is that good for business – they sell their goods for more and less people will be able to buy it! Soon you'll be buying out the peddlers in food markets and no one will be able to afford to eat."

"I'm sure it won't be that bad," Ezio says placatingly. "And I'm hardly asking much for my investment around the city – no more than I'm asking from Rosa in Fiore."

"I want to see your record books," Claudia demands. "You do keep one on all the stores you invest in, don't you? I want to see it."

"It is at the bank," Ezio says, rolling his eyes. "As it should be, according to yourself. But we can go and have a look at it, certainly."

"Good," Claudia says and turns to Maria and Leonardo. "Hello Leonardo. Where is Miles?"

"I – do not know," Leonardo admits, frowning a little. He'd seen Desmond briefly in the morning at breakfast, before he'd hurried off somewhere. "I believe he might have gone somewhere with Salaì – my assistant."

"Ah, yes, that," Ezio says and coughs. "They're at La Volpe Addormentata."

Leonardo frowns at that a little. Salaì, he can believe – now that time had passed a little and it didn't seem as though people were actively looking for them, they dared to venture out a little from their hideout at Tiber Island, though under disguises usually. Salaì, easily bored in the secluded life, had taken the first opportunity to flounce off to gamble what few florins he had left and now frequents La Volpe Addormentata more than ever.

But Desmond? Desmond does not gamble.

"Is Miles training with the thieves now?" Claudia asks, frowning. "I thought you already promoted him to full Assassin?"

"I – did," Ezio says and looks away. "He's working on something else, I think – La Volpe Addormentata is the best place to do it, it turns out."

"What is he working on?" Maria asks curious.

"Ah – I promised not to say," Ezio admits and glances at Leonardo. He clears his throat. "Never mind him – I'll send him over on an errand or some such if you want to see him, but I think he's going to be busy all day today."

Maria and Claudia share a disappointed look while Leonardo folds his arms. He's not so self centred to think all things Desmond does has to do with him – Desmond is a working Assassin also, and a very good one at that. But the look Ezio gave him rather speaks volumes. Something either to do with him – or _not_ to do with him, then.

Leonardo looks away, to his drawings, and wonders. Since he is largely confined to the hideout for now and as such they are constantly in company and under watch, they had not done much together, aside from working. As lovely as that work is, Desmond wants more than just it, Leonardo knows. And of course, after being together imprisonment and now here, they are together so often. Even Salaì grew bored of Leonardo's company on occasion – very often even – and made to escape it.

Perhaps…

"Well, in any case, I want to see the record books," Claudia says then. "Well then, Brother, get to it."

"Yes, yes," Ezio sighs and bows his head to Maria. "We shall be right back, Mother."

"No, we won't. We will be back once I am satisfied that you can keep your finances in order," Claudia harrumphs and then they're gone, leaving Maria smiling after them and Leonardo shaking his head.

"Living here must be very interesting," Maria comments, amused.

"It is never boring, at the very least. Sometimes I do miss the privacy and _quiet_ of having my own workshop," Leonardo says with a sigh. He misses the sound of Desmond playing the Vihuela too – there had been so little time to do it, here. Shaking his head he turns to Maria. "And I do miss painting. Say, Madonna, would you be interested for modelling for me for a sketch? Perhaps one day I might have peace and time to paint again." And painting portraits of the Auditore family is something that has been in his mind a while now.

"Oh, Leonardo, I would be delighted," she smiles and as he goes to set up a canvas to sketch her likeness on for later painting, she finds herself a chair and sits down on it, modelling with the grace of a woman who'd in all likelihood had done it before, several times. She had been a great patron of the arts, in the height of her family's influence and fortune, after all.

"Have you considered what you might do, once you have liberty do as you wish again?" Maria asks, as Leonardo measures her features with his eyes to start outlining her general shape on the canvas. "Man such as yourself cannot just disappear from the world."

"Nor should I like to," Leonardo sighs, and starts outlining her. "I have been thinking of Florence, more and more," he admits then. "I think I would like to return there, one day. But I think not yet, not right now." Not, if he ever wanted Desmond to come with him. With the Auditore and how new that delicate bond was… such distance would do none of them any favours. "For now I suppose I am forced to wait until I can safely work again and then I will set up workshop here, in Rome, again."

Maria hums and looks away. "I miss Florence too," she whispers. "Things were… simpler then."

Leonardo nods, but can't really think of anything say. Things were easier back in Florence, anyway. Life was full of such promise, when they were all younger and the world brighter. Things had faded into shadows so fast – in loss and murder and pain… and some truly unfortunate patrons, along the way.

"Ezio wanted us to go back there," Maria admits suddenly. "After we lost the Villa, he told Claudia to take us to Florence, to find shelter there. We still have some friends there, we might have found our footing. I think Ezio wished to see us become noblewomen, again."

Leonardo looks up from the canvas. "Not a terrible wish for a man to have for his family," he comments.

"With the Medici gone from the city… it was well known we Auditore sided with them, it would not earn us any favours now," Maria says and shakes her head. "With Giovanni gone and Ezio taking shelter in shadows, there is no return for us, not to that life. And Miles…" she trails away and sighs.

Leonardo says nothing. Desmond in his guise of Miles _di ser Ezio_ da Firenze is illegitimate. It would take faking many records and possibly threatening or buying off notaries and clergymen to make him otherwise – even the claim as _illegitimate_ son of Ezio Auditore is rather awkward at this point because as far as the world knows, Ezio Auditore is _dead_ and thus can make no official claims one way or the other. Even if there were anything left of the Auditore to inherit, that inheritance would not go to Desmond, not easily.

Leonardo would know – his own father is getting old and the end of his life is looming and already Leonardo can imagine the terrible hassle sorting through that inheritance will be. He is oldest of all of his siblings – but they are legitimate. He barely has any ties to Piero Fruosino da Vinci, these days. And his father has the very clear benefit of still being alive and perfectly legal gentleman.

Maria sighs and shakes her head. "There is no use for longing for things that are not to be," she says fatalistically and looks to him. "And I think Miles will have a greater future under your care, Maestro, than as the son of disgraced nobility. You will take care of him and history will remember him."

Leonardo bows his head slightly and smiles. "I will certainly do my best," he promises

But oh, if his best could happen with little bit more _privacy_ than the Assassin hideout can provide…

* * *

 

Desmond is not back for hours on end and though it is really not Leonardo's place to worry for him, he does anyway. Unlike Luciana and Beatrice whom Ezio is sending further and further away to do their work, Ezio tends to keep Desmond close to home, and he's rarely gone for more than few hours at time. This, being away whole day, is new.

Of course, it is only to be expected.  Since their venture to Vatican to retrieve the Apple of Eden again, Ezio trusts in Desmond's abilities more and so Desmond sets out nearly every night, weakening their enemies in Rome, bit by bit, kill by kill. It's the aspect of their work Leonardo does not like to think much of – necessary though it might be – but he knows how good Desmond is at it. He's seen it.

There is nothing to be worried about.

He worries anyway, in the suddenly quiet Hideout. Maria and Claudia are gone now, headed back to Rosa in Fiore, and Ezio is off scouting around the city. Apparently his and Claudia's spirited discussion had left them both leaning for _more is better_ – Ezio is now aiming to take down another Borgia watch tower, to make an example out of it to persuade more people to accept his _aid_ and _investment_ and thus increase the Assassin Order's income in the city.

At this rate, the whole city would soon end up paying rent to the Assassins under the table. What a terrifying concept. Though, if it might in any way increase the chances of some of their restoration projects to come into fruition…

Leonardo sighs and sets the charcoal down, eying the sketch. He'd managed to outline Maria Auditore's likeness well enough for painting, but the back ground needs some more work. Would it be too cruel to make it in the likeness of the Auditore Villa in Monteriggioni? The inner courtyard had been such a lovely place to spend time in…

"Ah, there you are," a voice says and Leonardo looks up to see Salaì.

"I wasn't aware I was lost?" Leonardo says and then looks around expectantly. "I hear you and Desmond were at La Volpe Addormentata – is he back also?"

"No, he's still back there, the idiot," Salaì says and claps his hands, leaning in to look at the canvas "Very nice, but leave it and get up. We're going."

"Going? Going where?" Leonardo asks, even as he sets the charcoal down.

"To La Volpe Addormentata, of course," Salaì says. "I've been slaving away at Miles' behest all day and I am _done_ with his ridiculousness. Come on. Ready or not, you're going to see what he's been doing."

Leonardo blinks and then rises. "That sounds mildly worrisome," he says. "If he doesn't want me to see whatever he's doing –"

"Oh, no, he wants you to see it alright, but he's a stupid perfectionist who will not leave well enough alone and if I let him, he's going to be working at the damn things all livelong day and night and probably the next decade while he's at it," Salaì scoffs, circling around him and giving his shoulders a push. "Off we go, Maestro, your silly beloved awaits."

Leonardo feels a flush of guilty pleasure at that, _beloved._ Salaì shoves at him without mercy though, steering him towards the sewers and with a shake of his head Leonardo lets him. "What has he been working on then, that I could not help him?" he asks, and tries not to feel jealous. Surely he could have, had Desmond only _asked him_.

Salaì gives him a look. "It is the most ridiculous romantic thing and I _hate_ you for having won him for yourself," he says flatly and then shakes his head. "And I will not say more because he might _actually_ kill me if I do."

Leonardo gapes at him and then inhales sharply, the curiosity a sudden living _beast_ within him. "Not even a hint?" he asks imploringly.

"I am taking a vow of silence, _right now_ ," Salaì says firmly – and, most shockingly, he keeps it too.

The way through the tunnels is excruciatingly long – Leonardo can't even muster his usual interest in their design – how they had been built over many years by many different hands, the stone work different here and there. There are still roman signatures in the stone work too, the masons having carved dates and names into the rock, it is all very fascinating and Leonardo doesn't care one jot.

The idea of a _most ridiculous romantic thing_ is all but killing him with curiosity. Every step, every minute drags on forever and Salaì, damn him, keeps his peace.

Somehow eventually, spending a small forever in the darkened tunnels and infuriating silence, they make it out of Rome, past the fields – or rather under them – and finally, to La Volpe Addormentata. Leonardo rises from the sewers with a sigh and then looks around – it's almost midnight, now, he realises with concern.

"I hope we are not late," he murmurs, watching the people standing about in the clearing in front of the inn, drunken thieves and mercenaries, attended to by cheerful courtesans, all in very good spirits. There is no sight of Desmond, though.

Leonardo turns to head inside the inn, when Salaì takes him by the shoulders and steers him the other way instead. "Salaì?" Leonardo asks but Salaì just harrumphs, and pushes him on and away from the inn.

After having spend so long indoors behind the thick walls of the Assassins' hideout, it's a little intimidating to walking into the shadows of the night like that, with no notion on what might be waiting for him there. He swears he can feel thousand eyes on him too, and when he looks up he thinks he sees people on the rooftops, watching. Thieves, perhaps. Ignoring them entirely, Salaì pushes him on – he doesn't lead them into the forest, at least, but rather into the fields to the north of the inn. There Leonardo finds someone has lit the path for them – there are lanterns on the field, marking the way. Is that what the thieves were watching?

Salaì gives him a last push and then, as Leonardo hesitates, shoos him off. As Leonardo cautiously turns to follow the path of lanterns, Salaì sighs after him and turns away.

Leonardo sets forward, all but trembling with curiosity and thrill. The night is dark, even the moon is barely out and the stars are distant flickers. In the shadows, the path of the lanterns is warm and enticing. It reminds him of when he was a boy, setting out to explore caves, fearing for worst and yet hoping for wonders. It's like all those ridiculous stories of will-o'-the-wisps and spirits, leading men a stray. All foolish notions, of course, there are no such things… but for a moment Leonardo lets himself be carried away by the fantasy. And true enough, he is being led away by the lights here. Led away and to Desmond, waiting for him.

Most ridiculously romantic thing, indeed.

Desmond notices him the moment he gets close enough to hear, of course, and Leonardo stares. There are lanterns lit around him, casting warm light on his white robes and hooded face and in his hands he has – something Leonardo doesn't immediately understand. A strange, enormous lantern with light blazing inside, which seems to all but _float_ in Desmond's hands.

"Hi," Desmond says, a little awkward. "You're a… a bit early."

Leonardo shakes his head. "Salaì is impatient," he says quietly and steps forward. "What _is_ that?"

Desmond grins a little, ducking his head – which, in the light of the large lantern he's holding, only reveals his face more, than less. "Give it a moment, you'll see."

Leonardo swallows, instantly charmed by that hint of secrecy and pleasure in Desmond's face. The lantern in Desmond's hands waves oddly and Leonardo looks to it instead, too curious to hold back. It's made of _paper_. Sheets of paper somehow joined together, perhaps with beeswax or starch, though Leonardo can't tell immediately.

It is supported by _nothing_ , however – there is nothing within it to hold the shape or make it stand, and paper alone can't possibly support such construction…

"Oh, it's, is it –?" Leonardo says and he's just about to crouch to see the bottom of it, when Desmond lets the lantern go – and it _floats_. And not only does it float, but it rises – it _flies_. The construction of paper, which seems to have metal wire of some sort in the bottom holding what looks like bit of burning wool, is _flying_.

For a moment Leonardo gapes after the paper lantern as it rises higher and higher on the windless sky, its glow warm and enticing against the darkness above. Several things slot into their places in his head, theories of air and flight – he'd done experiments with papers and feathers floating on the column of hot air rising atop fires, and then there was the final success of his flying machine, which had used heat of fires for uplift, but this….

This is a device flying under its _own power_ , with no external force of rising air needed.

"Lighter than air aviation," Desmond says quietly. "That's how first proper flights happened – will happen, probably, outside your flying machine. People making big envelopes from airproof fabrics – silk, nylon once it's invented, with some sort of source of heat to give it up lift."

Leonardo barely dares to take his eyes off the flying lantern, but he does, just to look at Desmond. "You –" he starts to say and then shakes his head. "Why didn't you ask my help making it? I would have loved to see it constructed."

"I wanted it to be a surprise," Desmond says, scratching at his cheek awkwardly. "You know… romantic surprise. We haven't had much time to do anything like that and I… wanted to surprise you."

Leonardo shakes his head, incredulous, and looks up again. The lantern is still rising. "How long will it fly?" he asks, breathless.

"So as long as fire will burn," Desmond says, also looking up. "There's bit of lantern oil in the wool. It'll eventually run out and the balloon will cool down and then it'll fall." He hesitates and then coughs. "I do have more of them – I kind of… spent the all day making them."

Leonardo looks down at him, eying him helplessly. "You are," he starts to say, but can't choose between _hopeless_ and _magnificent_. In the end he settles on shaking his head and reaching to kiss him instead, heedless of risk of being seen. They're out in the open and surrounded by light – anyone in the darkness could see him but he hardly cares. Leonardo cannot _not_ kiss him.

Desmond turns into him unsurely at first and then eagerly, stepping closer and pressing against him. The hood is pressing against Leonardo's forehead and, ah, there is Desmond's hand, his fingers brushing into Leonardo's beard and hair tenderly. Leonardo leans to it and tilts his head – perfect.

Desmond doesn't kiss him like men of his stature and strength usually do – even though he has the upper hand of height, there is no aggression there, he doesn't press down and try and make him yield. He's gentle instead, soft – it's more like Leonardo imagines kissing a woman might feel like. Delicate and infinitely gentle.

Even Salaì, who enjoys yielding himself, doesn't kiss with the care Desmond does, like the very act is precious.

Leonardo pulls back, eventually, and he's in no way surprised when Desmond brushes his cheek against his like indulgent cat, nosing into his beard with a pleased hum. "You are impossible," Leonardo murmurs, tilting his head and looking up at the floating lantern as Desmond trails his lips down, pressing a kiss on his neck instead.

"I hope you mean that in a good way," Desmond hums contentedly, his palm pressing against Leonardo's lower back, wide and warm even through his clothes. He hums again – like just holding him is pleasant. This man…

"I mean it in the absolutely best way," Leonardo assures him, swallowing and swaying before lifting Desmond's face to kiss him again. "Is this – something people of your time do? Overblown romantic gestures?" he asks a little breathlessly.

Desmond tilts his head. "They don't do them now?" he asks and makes a face. "Obviously I have the complete wrong idea of the times."

Leonardo laughs and pushes the younger man's hood back. "It is something a man might do for a woman, in pursuit of her affections," he says and shakes his head fondly. "I can't say anyone has gone out their way to pursue me in such ways."

"Now that's just wrong," Desmond says, smiling, his hand tracing up Leonardo's back, bringing him closer. "You deserve all the wooing. Obviously I need to work harder at it."

"You made a thing _fly_ for me. At this point, I think you can consider me sufficiently wooed," Leonardo laughs against his mouth then leans back, to look at the lantern again. It's now only a distant speck. "You had more of them, you said?"

"Yes, I have a whole bunch," Desmond agrees with a smile and turns. "Let me show you."

Leonardo, feeling giddy and eager and younger than he has in many years, watches as Desmond fetches one of his creations, another envelope made of paper – not of wanted posters this time, though Leonardo wouldn't be surprised to find one or two among them. Desmond shows him the construction of the lantern, how it is held open at the bottom by metal wire, and how the fire source is kept away from the wall by an another metal wire.

"Here, I'll hold it up and you can light the wick," Desmond says, pinching the paper envelope by the top, and with eager hands Leonardo reaches for the nearest lantern. The wick, soaked in lantern oil, catches easily and immediately lights the paper lantern up.

"They seem somehow oriental," Leonardo says, while crouching down to watch the flame flicker. "I have seen oriental paper lanterns before, though unfortunately they did not fly."

"That's where they come from, yeah," Desmond says. "They were used for signalling, originally. Sky lanterns, they're called – in my time, there are festivals where people release these things by the thousands. I've never seen it in person, though."

As Leonardo watches, wonderful, fantastic visions and ideas whirling in his head, the paper lantern fills with hot air and then starts to slowly rise. Desmond holds it by the bottom, motioning him to come forward. "Come on, feel it – it's tugging at my fingers."

"It has that much lift?" Leonardo asks and then takes hold of the lantern by its bottom, carefully holding onto the edges where the metal wire has been folded into the paper. It really is tugging at his fingers. "Oh, it's – actually rather strong. With big enough envelope, it really is enough to lift a man?"

"Mmhmm, several even," Desmond agrees, letting go of the lantern and coming to his side instead. "I'll sketch out some drawings for you, so you'll get the idea. Hot air ballooning was a whole thing. And then there were airships, blimps and dirigibles and so on, bigger and stronger balloons people filled with various lighter than air gasses…"

Desmond's arms wind around him and he speaks these wonderful secrets of future knowledge almost directly in Leonardo's ear, sharing the secrets of the universe easily and without hesitation. Leonardo sways into his hold, feeling a little breathless, and then he releases his hold on the lantern.

"You really are going to change the future," Leonardo whispers, watching the lantern rise, to join its already distant kin in the sky.

"No," Desmond says, sounding satisfied. " _We_ are."

Leonardo turns his head to look at him, and Desmond smiles, and then looks down, tracing Leonardo's face, his lips. Leonardo leans into it, expecting another kiss, but Desmond presses their foreheads together instead. "I'm lucky to have you here," Desmond says then. "I can't think of another man who could understand this better than you. You make it all seem _possible_. Without you… I don't know what I'd do."

Leonardo smiles, and it feels helplessly smitten even to himself. He is very, _very_ thoroughly wooed, indeed. "I am luckier to know you at all, Desmond Miles," he murmurs, reaching a hand to Desmond's cheek, to trace his shaven skin, to thumb at the scar on his lips. So much like Ezio's – and yet not like him at all. "You are impossible and precious."

Desmond grins against his fingers and then mouths at them gently. Shaking his head in wonder at the man – how he is there at all, and with him, and so incredibly _sweet_ despite everything that had occurred and still stands in between them – Leonardo reaches to kiss him again.

Future could wait for them a little while longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided against the smut chapter since after this chapter it just doesn't fit very well. So, next chapter will be last one.


	28. Chapter 28

Leonardo wakes up to a small clunk as a door is opened and closed. For a moment confused, he looks to the window – but of course it's shut and curtained. It was the door – closing at Francesco's footsteps as the young man slips in with a tray.

"Good morning, Maestro," Francesco greets him, spotting him awake. "I'm sorry – did I wake you?"

Leonardo grumbles and pushes himself up – or tries to. His elbow gives out under his weight and his shoulder aches fiercely and with a sigh he lays back down. "I wasn't sleeping very deeply," he answers and looks to the window again. It's late in the morning near to noon. A full night of empty rest, again. "What is that?"

"Porridge, some dried fruit – I managed to sneak away pastry too, though the doctor thinks you would do better without."

Leonardo cluck's his tongue and closes his eyes, opening them with annoyance as he feels the tray being laid on the bed. "Put it on the table, boy, it'll only tip over," he says. "And help me up.

"Yes, of course – here," Francesco says and quickly moves to his side, easing him to sit upright and adding a pillow behind his back. "There is that good?"

"It's fine," Leonardo sighs and leans back. It's not good, but it will do. "Is there any word of Miles?"

Francesco hesitates, just long enough, and then smiles. "No, Maestro, I'm sorry, there is still no word," he says and then, before Leonardo can do more than sigh, he turns to the tray. "Now please, you should eat something."

Leonardo casts a look at the tray and then sighs. "I'm not hungry," he says and looks to the window – and to the model hanging above it. "Leave it; I will see if I can nibble some of it later. Open that window, now, I want to feel the wind."

What he wants, actually, is to see the wind move the models hanging from the ceiling. His old flying machine is there, amidst their later, greater accomplishment. _La luce di Roma_ hangs right over the window, and the moment Francesco opens the window pane, the wind stirs it, sending it rocking.

For a moment Leonardo thinks back to how it looked, when it rose for the first time. The poor lady burst into flames in her fourth flight, sure, but it rouse, it rouse so high, shining light so brightly down to the city below. Like the floating lanterns Desmond made for him, so long ago.

"Have there been no work at all, no letter?" Leonardo asks. How long has Desmond been gone anyway – months?

Francesco sighs and bows his head. "I'm sorry Maestro – there has been nothing."

If he is lying, Leonardo can't tell – but he won't meet his Master's eyes either, which makes Leonardo doubt himself. Perhaps Francesco has guessed what he has, maybe it is obvious to all who have seen him, all who know.

Desmond doesn't want to be here, to watch wither and die.

Leonardo squeezes his hands into fists and then leans his head back with a sigh. Francesco putters around in the room for a moment, aimlessly adjusting the bedding and the curtains, checking up on the fireplace. "Oh, be gone already, I'm sure you have more interesting things to do," Leonardo says. "More of my wine to drink, too, I bet."

"I have not," Francesco denies quickly.

"Well not this morning anyway, but I can smell the after effects in your breath – you should really clean teeth, Francesco, you'll miss them when they're rotted off," Leonardo scoffs and waves a dismissive hand when Francesco moves to argue. "Have some patience, boy – you can have the wine cellar, only wait until I die, will you? It's only polite."

Francesco looks at him like he's given the boy a blow. "You're only ill, maestro, you're not going to _die_ ," he says quickly. "Just eat and regain your strength and give your body time to recover, you'll be fine."

"I'm afraid even Fundamentals of Patient Care won't save me from old age," Leonardo scoffs, amused. "It comes to us all. Now off with you. I wish to read in peace."

"I – should I put out a candle?" Francesco asks hesitantly.

"There is light aplenty. Be gone already – and no wine," Leonardo snaps. "If I can't have any then neither can anyone else in this house."

"Yes, Maestro," Francesco sighs, and then hesitates. "I could bring you a cup," he then offers. "If you ate properly for once."

Leonardo snorts and waves him off and, finally, Francesco leaves. Leonardo is quiet for a moment in his wake, eying the closed door, and then he turns to the window again.

The breeze slipping in through the gap Francesco had left is warm. It's May now, Leonardo recalls and sighs. It's looking to be a beautiful summer too, judging by what little he can see from his window. He would not live to see it, but anyone ever got to choose when their time came up… he would've chosen summer.

His eyes drift up to _La luce di Roma_ again. Their _Light of_ _Rome_. He'd done many great things over his career, made many celebrated art works, but _La luce di Roma_ is still the thing he is proudest off. The flying machine he built together with Desmond, the one that without external aid but what was within the machine itself lifted man above earth. The model of it is a little over decorated now – they did not put quite so many tassels on the envelope of the balloon… but it makes for a great piece of art, now.

He cannot blame Desmond for not wanting to be there, not really. Desmond is a young man still, only-forty two now, isn't he? He still has great many years ahead of him. Coming from future, bearing still the signs of that future, Desmond live to be as many years again, really – the men of his time lived longer, after all. Compared to that, what is Leonardo – what are the mere seventeen years they have spend together? What is such short period of time, compared to decades still ahead of him?

Leonardo cannot blame him – but he still wishes he could've seen him at least one last time.

Breathing in and letting the regret out in a slow sigh, Leonardo turns to the bedside table, and reaches for the books there. They're well read and worn now, these books – made priceless by their age, their edition and the signatures they had left in their pages, the annotations Desmond had later written, fixing minor errors of the first print.

The Aviation Codex, the Treatise of Basic Medical Care, the Study of Flight… there are other books on the bedside table, as well, shorter essays and manuscripts they had written over the years, some of Desmond's and some of Leonardo's own which Desmond had _insisted_ they get printed properly and damn the cost, ignoring his objections entirely. All of his Codices and Manuscripts gone to print at Desmond's hand, with Assassin money most likely speeding their printing.

There's even that ridiculous play Salaì had written of them, banned the moment it had gone into printing. Only handful of copies of it remains now, and it is one of Leonardo's favourites. Pity, he had never seen it actually on stage.

Then again, it had been terribly vulgar.

Leonardo traces his fingers over the Aviation Codex, remembering when he'd held it for the first time, with hands younger and steadier, spotted only by freckles and scars, not wrinkles and liver spots. It had been such a struggle to get it to printing, too, in Rome –  _La luce di Roma_ had helped but some concepts in the Codex had still been somewhat heretical. Copernicus had not yet spread the Telescope around, and people still held onto the classical notions of how the world worked. And, most damning at all, they'd written the damn thing in the common tongue too, and not Latin. Oh, how people talked.

And oh how they'd celebrated once the word got out, and the book, after initial suspicion, stayed in print.

Smiling fondly at the memory, Leonardo opens the book and then, with eyes little too hazy now to see the actual print, he begins turning the pages. He can see his own illustrations at least, and he remembers their lines perfectly. Everything from depictions of air flow and current to the basic of airfoils and structures of bird wings, he remembers it all.

No, perhaps this is his proudest accomplishment. _La luce di Roma_ had been magnificent, but the Aviation Codex was the true first thing they had collaborated on.

Leonardo's hand hesitates over the pages and with a sigh he leans back. "Pride for past accomplishments is great, but it's not the company I'd wish to keep right now," he murmurs, to himself, to the draft of wind that brushes the curtains and makes the models hanging from the ceiling waver and weave like they're flying again… to Desmond who is not here.

His absence hurts all the more by the fact that it's not something he would've expected, not of Desmond. Leonardo has had never had cause to doubt his beloved's heart – Desmond has been a constant presence at his side since those early, terrible days in Rome and he had never budged and never strayed. Leonardo had had never cause to doubt Desmond's devotion and love for him, for he had never hidden it. It had always been right there, and so sure. Even when Leonardo had started growing older faster, even when his hair turned grey and then white, even when his shoulders started to ache too much for tools and his fingers shake too much for a brush… Desmond had been there, looking at him, like he was still much younger man he'd fallen in love with.

But Desmond isn't there now.

Is it too much of a loss for the man who had once lost all he knew, to stay and watch him slip away into the cruel embrace of death?

Or is Francesco lying and there had been word after all – word of an accident or incident, that had robbed Desmond away from him before time could rob him of life?

Leonardo closes the book, his appetite for fond nostalgia gone and sets it down again

Is it selfish… to not wish to die alone?

* * *

 

Leonardo must have slipped into sleep, for he wakes again to the sound of door opening and closing. the room is colder now – it's turning into evening and the breeze is no longer as warm as it had been.

"I am still not hungry, Francesco," Leonardo grumbles. "Though do close that window and maybe start a fire. It's getting cold."

"You haven't been eating?"

For a moment Leonardo doesn't react at all, still half asleep, dreaming of days gone by. Then the words and the voice they were spoken in catches up to him and he opens his eyes.

There is an Assassin in his bedroom.

"Death, is that you?" Leonardo asks, his voice wavering, and reaches out a hand that shakes all too much for his liking

Desmond smiles from under his hood and slides to his side, sitting beside him on the bed and making an indent on the mattress. Leonardo almost sighs with relief – if he has weight, then he cannot be phantom of Leonardo's imaginations. "What are you wearing?" Leonardo asks, as Desmond takes his hand into his warm grip.

Desmond is in full Assassin regalia, robes and armour and all – he even has sword at his side and twin bracers, both of which gleam with fresh polish. He looks like a memory, more than anything – he's even shaved and without quarter inch of full beard he usually keeps, he looks terribly young. He looks like man from years ago, who'd whispered secrets into Leonardo's ear and claimed his heart with a smile.

"It seemed suitable for the work I have been doing," Desmond says with a smile, lifting his hand and pressing a gentle kiss on the backs of his knuckles. "I'm sorry I have been away for so long."

"Surely you're not working as an assassin again," Leonardo says, confused. "Is that why you have been away?"

"I have been travelling – I'm sorry," Desmond says and presses Leonardo's palm against his cleanly shaven cheek. "It took me longer than I thought it would, I didn't mean to be away for so long. Have you missed me?"

"Like plant misses the Sun, every single day," Leonardo admits with a laugh and strokes a thumb over the scar. "Did you decide you didn't like the beard after all?" he asks, amused. "You look so much younger without it – it's like you've walked right out of my memories."

"I know," Desmond agrees, smiling wryly and then reaching down. "I have missed you too, Leonardo. God, I was so worried I'd be too late…"

Oh, how he can still kiss him like they're still young and their future still ahead of them. It's still so painfully gentle – perhaps it's even more gentle now, in count of what is about to come. Leonardo strokes Desmond's cheeks and mourns for him – mourns for the loss he's about to suffer.

Perhaps it would have been better, if Desmond had been too late.

"Oh, my love," Leonardo murmurs, as Desmond leans down further, nosing into his beard like he used to, when time was cheap and love easy. "If only I had been three decades younger when we met."

If only he had more years to give this man, this beautiful, fierce man. Desmond deserved a younger lover, one who could continue at his side for years still, and who would then grow old with him – and not so soon ahead of him. Leonardo had never thought of it then, but now… now it seems all too cruel, to love a man so much younger than himself, and thus force him to live with the inevitable.

Desmond says nothing, sighing against him and holding him – supporting his own weight against the pillows to keep from putting it on him. When he lifts his head finally, his face is serious, his eyes dark. Leonardo strokes his face, and sighs.

"My love, my beautiful young love," Leonardo murmurs, wistful. "What you doing here, at this old man's side? There's a world out there waiting for you. You should be out there, not here."

Desmond swallows, tight and audible. "My world is right here," he whispers and leans into his hands. "There is nothing out there that matters more."

Leonardo smiles, wavering, bittersweet. For all that he's glad that Desmond is there now, and with him once more, he would have gone into his eternal sleep happier not knowing this. Of course… he had known, but to hear Desmond say it hurts.

He means it, he means it so seriously – and so what comes after these terrible last days will be painful and terribly lonely for him.

"If I could, I would give you a forever," Leonardo murmurs, stroking his face, memorising it for the thousandth time – maybe like this he can take the memory of him with him to whatever follows. Even if it is nothing, in that nothingness he will remember Desmond Miles.

Desmond bows his head, swallowing again, swallowing something that might be tears or words, Leonardo doesn't know, but it looks painful. "Would you, really?" he asks and looks up, serious. "Would give me a forever if you could?"

Leonardo smiles. "I would give you a thousand forevers," he says and traces Desmond's lips. "God, you are so young still, it is as if you have never aged."

Desmond says nothing for a moment, kissing his thumb. Then he pulls away. "I have a gift for you," he says and reaches for a satchel at the back of his belt, snapping it open. "It's what I was looking for, the past few months – I'm sorry it took me so long."

What he takes out is a piece of cloth – a beautiful, shimmering golden silk, which all but flows from his hands into Leonardo's, feeling almost weightless. Leonardo peers at it curiously – it looks and feels very fine, smooth and delicate. It must have been expensive.

A funeral shroud?

"I…" Leonardo says and sighs. Well, it is horribly fitting – and it is a gift he can use, at the very least. It will have a very permanent use even, if this is the cloth Desmond will shroud his dead body in, when he lays him to rest. It's still… not quite what he expected. "It is beautiful, thank you."

Desmond watches him and then takes the shroud from his hands and stands, snapping the cloth open with a flick of his wrists. It flares beautifully, like sail of a great boat in sudden wind, and then it falls, feather soft and soundless like new snow.

"I'm not dead _yet_ ," Leonardo complains and Desmond _chuckles_ at him. The shroud descends and falls over Leonardo's blankets and in an instant Leonardo feels warmer underneath it.

"No, you're not dead yet," Desmond agrees, considering him thoughtfully for a moment and then sitting down to his side again. "Here," he says then and leans forward. "Let me make you feel a bit more _alive_."

This kiss is deeper than the last Desmond gave him – full of intent and promise that Leonardo can't possibly answer to, at his age and state of sickness. "Desmond," Leonardo sighs against him and winds an arm around him. "Oh, if only I could."

"Why couldn't you?" Desmond asks, tracing his cheek with his lips. The nightshirt Leonardo wears is a loose, soft old thing –and it offers him nary protection from Desmond's searching lips as they go for his neck and find his collarbones. "What stops you?"

"Age and infirmity," Leonardo laughs, even as his heart beats a tad quicker and his breath escapes in a sigh. "I'm afraid you'll get no raise from me, any longer."

Desmond looks up, and takes it as a challenge. "I'll see about that," he murmurs and as Leonardo looks on with mix of amusement and despair, he begins taking off his robes. The belt falls, followed by his various sheathes and bracers and seemingly in no time at all the beautiful silk robe of a Master Assassin joins them on the floor.

Lord, he is _beautiful_ , Leonardo thinks with despair. He's painted and drawn hundreds of pictures of Desmond over their years together, and still, the sight of him steals his breath away. Desmond, noticing him watching, smiles and then he slows down and takes his time with the rest of his clothes, the devil.

"Oh now you're just being _cruel_ ," Leonardo sighs. "Teasing me with what I can't possibly partake in."

"Why ever not?" Desmond asks and moves to him. His hand traces Leonardo's neck and down his chest and under the collar of his nightshirt, confident and familiar and entirely shameless. "Hmm, Leonardo?"

Leonardo sighs again as Desmond kisses him. He can't keep his hands away, tracing the taunt, warm skin of Desmond's bare sides, feeling the perfect lines of muscles, remembering each by heart and still discovering them as if they're all new again.

Desmond hums into his lips and slips under the blankets with him and with a start Leonardo realises he is reacting – for the first time in quite some time, his blood is pounding in his ears and his breath comes heated and slowly tension pools downward.

Good lord, he's _sixty seven_ and at death's door, and still Desmond can draw this out of him. Humming with confused excitement, Leonardo privately takes back all of his sympathetic thoughts for Desmond – it is him who's the unfortunate one here, cursed with a lover far too young and far too energetic for his old flesh.

"Desmond," he sighs, confused and thrilled and little afraid. At his age, such excitement is not exactly good for one's health. "God, what are you doing to me?"

Desmond smiles, warm and devilish. "Let me make you feel young again," Desmond whispers, his voice low like sin, and descends upon him, the most glorious doom Leonardo can possibly imagine.

* * *

 

Desmond is playing the guitar when Leonardo wakes, their legs tangled together and his cheek pressed on Desmond's hip. Confused, Leonardo lifts his head, and immediately Desmond stops, his hand coming to Leonardo's bare neck.

"Hey," Desmond says quietly. "It's morning."

"Is it?" Leonardo asks, turning to look and then stopping, even more confused now. Without thought he'd twisted his back in way he hasn't been able to in years, and it did not hurt. His weight is on his right arm, he's leaning onto his shoulder joint, and it does not hurt.

There is morning light breaching through the open window, but the room is not cold. Or rather, he is not cold – there is cloth of golden silk over him, pooling at his waist, and he feels… he _feels_ …

"Francesco will be in soon to nag me about food," Leonardo says, and at the mention of food he realises he is hungry, his stomach going so far as to audibly complain at the mention of food and its apparent lack. Confused afresh, Leonardo shifts where he lies – Desmond is looking at him tenderly, worriedly.

"What is this?" Leonardo asks, a strange feeling crawling up his spine.

Desmond swallows and looks away – and Leonardo realises, all at once but also with hindsight of many years, how young he looks. How young he has _always_ looked. The beard had hid it once, and Desmond had even grown out his hair once to hide it further, but his beloved is still a very young man.

Far younger than he should be.

"I'm sorry," Desmond whispers and looks down to the guitar which Leonardo had built for him, and which he had played on many such mornings, when they lay in each other's company and waited for the day to arrive. "I don't know how to _do this_ without you. I don't think I can."

Leonardo says nothing for moment, staring at him as hesitation blooms into suspicion and then alarm. He rises then, slowly – and he knees carry him, the world does not spin. He looks down, and finds his skin like it had not been in many years. Slow and faltering more due to the _lack_ of infirmity than because of it, Leonardo walks up to his dresser and to the mirror there.

There is a young man in his reflection, almost coltish on his firm slender legs, his skin smooth and tight and with none of the age's wrinkles or folds. He looks ludicrous, still wearing the beard and hair of an old man, but under it his skin is pale as it had not been in good thirty, forty – no, _fifty years_. Even the freckles almost invisible on his new skin.

"I'm sorry I didn't ask," Desmond says quietly, starting to play again, plucking at the strings in old, familiar melody. "It works best when you don't know it's working – by feeling, rather than knowledge."

Leonardo turns to him, speechless, and looks at the shroud Desmond had given him with new eyes. The watery haziness is gone from his eyes and now he can see it clearer – see the alien shapes on its surface. "That is a Piece of Eden," he whispers. "Isn't it?"

"Hm," Desmond agrees. "Shroud of Eden – it's a healing device. Can cure pretty much any illness. If you try to will it to work how you want it to it can get messy, though – these things work by intent, and when you're messing about humans at cellular level… one stray thought and it can go all wrong."

"Age is an illness?" Leonardo asks, not quite believing this. Maybe it's a dream, maybe he's hallucinating – maybe he has died and this is what comes after, impossible wishes coming true…

He turns back to the mirror – and there he is again, his body looking supple and new. Baffled by it, Leonardo runs his hands over his chest, up to his beard, tugging at the white strands. Whatever it did, it did not reverse his hair colour, apparently, which seems somehow absurd. "What," Leonardo starts to ask but he doesn't know _what_ to ask. He can _see_ what. And he heard the _why_.

It's just impossible.

"You don't age," Leonardo then says, leaning onto the dresser and staring at his own, young. All his wrinkles are gone – all of them. Under the whitebeard and hair, his face is that of a man barely past his boyhood, good god. He laughs and shakes his head. "In all these years you have not aged a day, have you, Desmond?"

Desmond sighs. "They changed me," he says. "I don't know how, exactly. They probably messed about with my genes somewhere along the way, removed the bits that makes people age, or added something new in. I figure that as long as nothing injures me bad enough, I'm going to probably live until the Flare."

Leonardo swallows ands hangs his head for a moment, just letting that terrible, terrible thought settle in. The flare, still centuries away… long, long centuries. Desmond would live that long, all the way to the end – the beginning, now irreversibly changed by his own actions.

And Leonardo might now live just as long. Good _God_.

It's impossible. It's too much. It's too sudden. It's… a _miracle_. An impossible miracle from the impossible man.

"Will there be consequences?" Leonardo asks, closing his eyes and hanging his head lower.

"In about thirty, forty years you might start getting old again," Desmond says. "The Shroud can't do what the Isu did to me; this is more a stop gap measure. Extension, really, more than anything. But aside from that no, there won't be consequences. I made certain of it."

Leonardo looks to him, wordless, and Desmond meets his eyes and swallows then says, his voice shaking a little, "On the second of May, 1519, Leonardo da Vinci died in his bedroom in the _Château du Clos Lucé_ , cause of which was suspected to be recurrent stroke…" he trails off and  looks down to the guitar. "When you had your first attack, I knew it was coming and that nothing I'd do would change it."

Leonardo shakes his head. "Second of May, that's…"

"Today," Desmond agrees and plucks at the strings nervously.

Leonardo breathes, slowly, in and out. Then he pushes away from the dresser and goes to bed. "My ludicrous love," he murmurs, crawling over the messy sheets and reaching to kiss him. Desmond is still for a moment and then he releases a quivering sigh against him. Leonardo smiles. "Did you think would be mad at you for this?"

"Well," Desmond murmurs, awkward. "I couldn't be sure. And I couldn't ask, that's a bit…" he shakes his head. "I love you," he says then, in apology. "I love you too much to loose you so soon."

"You impossible man. More time with you is all I want from life now," Leonardo murmurs and sighs, lying down beside him, on top of the golden cloth of the Shroud of Eden. Later, he would examine it and maybe experiment with it. Later he would question when and how Desmond found it. Later.

Right now, his body is heavy and tingling with aftermath of night of pleasure and he wants to lay with his lover.

"Now what?" Leonardo asks in a sigh, confused and terrified and excited in equal measures. "Does Leonardo da Vinci die today and I go forth wearing another name?"

"It's probably the safest way to go, yeah," Desmond says and strokes his palm over Leonardo's shoulders – the feel of it so familiar and yet so different on his now much smoother, firmer skin. "It can wait though. I sent Francesco away, he won't be back until tomorrow. No one will bother us today. We can take our time. Da Vinci can live one day more, I think."

"But die he must," Leonardo hums under the touch. "Hmm. Might Miles da Firenze be interested in taking a student?" he asks then, smiling a little at the thought of it. "I think there's a young man in desperate need of a master to guide his way through life, soon."

"I think Miles da Firenze will desperately need one, with his dear Maestro gone," Desmond says and bows down to kiss his shoulders. "He will need company to keep him from lapsing into sorrow." He chuckles. "Though I can't pretend at being the older man. I tried and the beard was awful."

Leonardo chuckles and then arches into his touch, feeling the rise of heat, not terribly urgent yet but present – and _lovely_ , after long absence of passion in their lives. Well, the absence of it for him, anyway, Desmond had never suffered from lack of it.

There is still a well nervous energy within him and fear that this might have terrible consequences, but he knows Desmond – and Desmond knows the Pieces of Eden. He would not risk it, if he had any doubts. There will be time, now.

"We need to make Ezio use the Shroud," Leonardo says after a moment, the realisation settling in now, slow and inevitable. "Chain him down if we must and throw the thing on him and then let Sofia have her way with him – he too is far too old for his wife." And if Leonardo has to contend with this, the Ezio can damn well join him.

Desmond laughs. "I thought we might head there once we're done here," he says. "We can figure out our next move in peace. I'd like to see my little siblings anyway."

"Good. I'd like to see Tuscany again, it has been too long," Leonardo says and stretches half over Desmond, resting his cheek on his stomach. "Sing that song for me, will you, the one you translated, the first one? It'll help settle my nerves."

"Alright," Desmond agrees softly, pressing another gentle kiss to his shoulder before straightening his back setting the guitar in his lap again. Moment later, the familiar melody begins filling the room again. Then he sings. "… If I could save time in a bottle the first thing that I'd like to do… is to save every day 'til eternity passes away just to spend them with you…"

Leonardo sighs and closes his eyes, Desmond's familiar voice and gentle promises carrying him off.

"…But there never seems to be enough time to do the things you want to do once you find them," Desmond sings. "I've looked around enough to know that you're the one I want to go through time with…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that. It's not perfect but it is finished. Holy shit, it's actually _finished_. And double chapter day to finish it off, too. Wohoo. That's 3+ weeks of my live well spent, damn.
> 
> Thank you all for your comments, with special mention to Nimadge who played the part of my muse during all this and kept my inspiration going by showering me with hundred AC posts on tumblr and Naramyon who writes the best comments. I think this fic wouldn't have been finished without you guys.
> 
> (Also, Beatrice totally became the Mentor after Ezio, Desmond will forever fight tooth and nail over the preservation of arts and damn everyone who tries to censor history and one day there will be semi dirty portraits of him in display at the Louvre and couple of tourists will make a nuisance of themselves by telling other tourists raunchy stories about how they got painted. And one day, Salaì's vulgar play becomes Oscar winning movie, somehow. And the Solar Flare doesn't burn the Earth, obviously, because people put a big rock in the way)
> 
> (the end)


End file.
